In the Name of Purpose
by reginavictoria
Summary: "She knew she would despise and resent it all-the Sherlock Holmes museums that she knew all sported Holmes' face in what she considered a caricature, the rooms meticulously designed ..."  I wrote this years ago, deleted it, and am now reposting.
1. Chapter 1

Randomly she surveyed her surroundings as she waited for the 10 AM London flight, indulging her unfortunately compulsive habit of observing people.

An obese woman in shorts, talking loudly to her sleepy husband while simultaneously attempting to bribe her young toddler to not run out of the terminal; a hunched over teen with torn jeans and a WWJD bracelet making arduous pecks at his girlfriend who sat on his lap, the tall middle-aged man who had pleasantly conversed with her and now seemed to be engaged in repeating the phrase "What the F! over his cell phone.

Overhead the television screen displayed CNN news "…and now the latest on the sex scandal involving Senator_ and his secretary..."

Absently she picked up the nearest magazine and flipped to the arts and entertainment section. … " the _s hottest new CD features an ingeniously refreshing and sexy mix of punk rock as they wail lyrics on their love lives." She lazily flipped the page. "_ , a wonderful drama accurately depicting the dark scandal and corruption that lay behind the stiff facade of Victorian England morality"

"Flight 83 to London! Now boarding flight 83!" Listlessly she got in line and boarded. She took out her laptop to e-mail her business colleague in London, but fell into deep thought, laying her head back and stared out the window into the morning light.

It seemed to her that she must be cursed, a rare fluke out of the millions of people that exist now upon the earth; and yet she could not say exactly why.

She could not accept it...whatever 'it' was. Not the advertisements, the images, and the news, nor the moral uncertainty, nor the attitudes of the people... not any of it. She had tried, oh how she had tried to conform, and she had succeeded in many respects except for the question. The one question that nagged her night and day and firmly convinced her that she was abnormal.

Was it so much to ask? That was the elusive question dimly running through her head that she could not articulate.

Not for the first time, the sounds, the images, the people she encountered over the years revisited her memory. Was she unfeeling and morally presumptuous to view the majority of people as she did? To expect, to want to see virtue, optimism and clarity, in people, and be so darkly disappointed when it was not? No one can be perfect... but can they not try?

For the first time she glanced at the seat next to her. It was a bright-looking little boy sitting next to his mother, craning his neck eagerly to see out the window . She smiled unconsciously. There was no gray when she was his age, but black and white only, laden with heros and wonderfully unrestrained excitement and first impressions.

Heroes. She had had several-But there was only one she had thought about of late . That one in particular stood out over the years, perhaps because he had never disappointed, and somehow still seemed believable.

And now she thought of him, because he seemed like an antidote, an agreeable narcotic to the nameless tormented emotions that ran through her.

In earlier years, she could even see him in her mind's eye as he lay stretched out on the sofa, smoking a pipe, his brilliant mind going in many directions and yet working with methodic ruthlessness towards his goal. How she rejoiced with him at every intellectual triumph, laughed at his eccentricities and brooded over his shortcomings.

His amiable but rather weary smile as he explained to Watson his latest deductive reasonimg... the stare of his brilliantly austere gray eyes as he eagerly observed his surroundings, the motion with which he carelessly "scraped his violin, thrown across his knees" had all been so unbelievably real and vivid to her…..

With bitter amusement she remembered sheepishly confiding to a high school friend how she admired Holmes… but it meant more to her than admiration;it was the same feeling she felt when she was able to play a particularly difficult but beautiful piece, or met a nearly impossible goal…. but it all sounded so childish, and she simply couldn't quite articulate it.

Her friend had nodded her head solemnly. Oh, she understood all right. "Men with brains are extremely sexy." Her friend had said with the obnoxious grin of a conspirator. She had turned away, trying to understand and not judge. After all, perhaps underneath that was all it boiled down to... oh but God help us all if it was.

She had been thinking of the issues of tomorrow's business meeting until that time as she sat unpacking in the hotel. Her eye wandered to the window and looked outside where the crowds of people swarmed below on the streets. It was where he was, as Watson put it "most at home at, sitting in the crowds of a million", looking outside his window at 221b.

221B Baker Street. In all her trips to London she desperately avoided that Westminster neighbourhood. It was, after all, only a made-up address, changed to fit the descriptions of the lodgings of a wonderful man who like all wonderful men-had never existed.

She knew she would despise and resent it all...the Sherlock Holmes museums that she knew all sported Holmes' face in what she considered a caricature, the rooms meticulously designed with VR holes bored in the walls to match Conan Doyle's description, the tongue in cheek manner with tourists toured them had all seemed repugnant to her. Oh, what the heck...

She decided to go.

She strolled down Baker street. It was time to face reality like an adult, she told herself. Holmes never existed. His world, his brand of Victorian honour- never really existed...

Ah, but what must it have been like, strolling down this street more than a century ago… to watch the ladies-the ones that were right now hunched over and mostly clad in shorts and tank tops- sauntering down the street so dignified and self-confident in long dresses with bustles... the gentlemen with their top hats and watch chains, and their children, hair combed and faces washed, trotting obediently behind. The air of hopefulness, of order and of certainty in God, Victoria and the British Empire.

But above all, to look up at that window and catch a glimpse of his aquiline face, austerely smoking his pipe, to see the signs of his mind at work, even under the safety of anonymity.

She suddenly became aware that she had stopped in the street and that several passerby had been staring at her. "Are you all right?" said a young woman with a crucifix just above her much-revealed cleavage. She smiled rather bitterly and nodded. Oh, yes she was fine.

She knew why she had come and what she had been looking for… any sign, anything that would dimly convince her such a man was at least possible. That alone would be enough, she knew. How pitiful and useless…Rather like a child desperately wanting Santa Claus to be real.

She felt herself tremble and cursed her own emotionalism. She needed to leave; to forget and go on with life like any normal young woman with her prospects would.

She made her way to the intersection of Church and Baker.- too languidly to notice the approaching car. She had a split second to react—and was shocked that in place of fear, complacency dominated as she felt the impact.

She certainly still had her body… she knew that from the sharp stab of pain that came when she attempted to move. The mattress seemed too comfortable for a hospital bed… and the material of her nightgown far more generous. She forced herself to open her eyes. A beautifully crafted nightstand stood beside her, with a ceramic bowl and pitcher on top. The bed which she lay in was massive, with two beautifully carved bedposts on either side. A window with fine white lace curtains stood at her left, and dimly she could hear the noise of crowds below.

The door opened and two men walked in. One short and elderly, with an air of dignity , the other of average height, with a small moustache and alert brown eyes. A middle-aged woman followed close behind them. Their clothing was unmistakably Victorian.


	2. Chapter 2

In an attempt to demonstrate the extraordinary deductive powers of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I have selected to release only those extremely intricate cases which clearly showcase these brilliant abilities. However, in recognition of the fact that his many readers and admirers are also interested in his more personal side, I have decided to chronicle some of the more intimate details of his life, such as would not compromise his privacy. I have said before that he "never spoke of the softer passions except with a gibe and a sneer". Indeed that is true, yet I feel compelled to say this did not mean he was incapable of them. No, in his admirably balanced mind he was simply able to reconcile his emotions with intellect. It is with pleasure that I recount the incidents that so clearly illustrated this to me.

That autumn evening was as clear and crisp as I had ever seen on Baker Street. Holmes sat lazily sprawled in his armchair, oblivious to the world of fading sunlight outside. Through much warning and cajoling, I had managed to persuade him to stop the use of those drugs which would have undoubtedly led to the ruin of his brilliant mind; yet now, with no occasion nor opportunity for mental exercise, I feared he would be tempted to resume his habit.

My wounded leg felt uncommonly limber and after weeks of fog and cold. I longed to take a brisk stroll in the sunshine. Predictably, Holmes declined to join me, for when he was in his dark uncommunicative mood no one could rouse him except an unsolved crime or his own initiative.

I felt an inexplicable lightheartedness that day. It seemed to mark the end of that long dark period following the death of my beloved wife. All seemed well and right with the world and it with me as I strode off Baker and walked down Church street. A dreadful cry and the neighing of horses jolted my peaceful train of thought.

"Doctor! call for a doctor, Man .She's bleeding!"

A crowd of people quickly gathered around a woman laying face down in the street. I pushed my way through them.

"I am a doctor, sir! Make way! Do not move her!"

The hansom driver was apologising profusely.

"It's the truth, sir. She stepped right out into the street without a care in the world. I couldn't stop in time."

I was relieved to find her pulse was still strong. There were no serious injuries except for the concussion which rendered her unconscious. Dr Jeremy Snow of Church Street arrived and concurred with my opinion.

" Where does she live? Does anyone know?"

"Yes, I've the seen girl before" said one young woman. "168 farther down Church Street."

I stayed long enough to ensure she was transported to her lodgings safely and left a card with the housekeeper, with the intent of returning tomorrow to check on her.

"Interesting walk, Watson? I observe you encountered a distressing event, in all probability an accident in which you exercised your medical training?" Said Holmes upon my return as he stood before the window gazing down at passersby.

"Thank the Lord it was not serious, Holmes. Such a young woman, apparently healthy and in the prime of life, stepping carelessly in front of a hansom rushing at full speed. In all probability a lovers' quarrel or some such business. What a terrible waste of life it could have been!"

Yet within a few minutes Holmes seemed miles away again in his own train of thought. He said nothing but took out his violin, purposefully drawing his bow across the strings to make sweet, haunting melodies late into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The next afternoon I made my way to 168 Church St, lodgings of Miss Rebecca Eastman. Dr. Snow had came too, and so I hesitated for fear of professional interference. Yet, I assured him I had came solely out of concern.

Her rooms were smaller than our Baker Street accommodations, but clean and practical. In the drawing room an upright piano and a large, full bookshelf The housekeeper, a middle-aged, stern yet amiable woman showed us to her room.

She had just awakened and was sitting upright in bed when the housekeeper announced us. As I looked into her face carefully for the first time, its familiarity struck me deeply. It was not her beauty, however, though she was not lacking it. No, something less tangible, in the alertness of the eyes, in the simple practicality and goodness of her expression. For though she had dark hair and eyes with larger features, she innately reminded me of my Mary.

Dr. Snow spoke for both of us, and as he introduced me and pronounced the words "Dr. John H. Watson" a look of intense emotion seemed to sweep across her face. Gradually she composed herself and murmured her acknowledgement. Yet her wide dark eyes continued to stare at me openly with astonishment, and what I thought to be joy.

Throughout my presence in the room she remained quiet, visibly shaken with emotion. Intuition seemed to tell me that it was not her injury which made her act so.

After a rather brief examination, Dr. Snow at last announced she would soon be fit and healthy recommended the usual time of bed-rest, than bade farewell to go on his other rounds.

In any other situation, I would not have dared to let the usual patient-doctor relationship so soon extend beyond the professional. Certainly at that point I would have courteously taken leave and left the rest to Dr. Snow. But there she was, her wide brown eyes looking at me with a kind of pleading, wondrous expression that was both haunting and puzzling, It was as though she desired me to stay yet presently lacked the composure and wellness to receive me. Despite Holmes' jests of my fortune with the fair sex, I was not so vain as to attribute her behaviour to myself.

"Miss Eastman, with your permission, may I call again in the near future to inquire about your health? I live quite nearby, on 221b Baker Street."

"You may, Dr. Watson… Thank you for all your kind.. and courteous assistance already… I owe you much." Her words came forced, as though she was unsure even of how to speak.

I inclined my head slightly and took her hand to say farewell. She gave me what appeared to be an amused smile at the completely ordinary gesture.

In those glorious autumn days that followed, Holmes found a problem sufficient to satisfy his mental capacities. I did not know much about it, for of late our activities had grown apart.

In the mean time I continued to call on Miss Eastman as often as propriety allowed. I learned she was a music teacher, of modest means with no living parents. She had only recently moved into her present lodgings. More than this, I never found out, for she was not inclined to talking about herself and seemed to avoid any subject relating to her past.

Our meetings were simple but pleasant; usually consisting of enjoyable conversation. When the weather was fair she indicated a preference for a stroll outside. In this instance she almost always insisted on walking down Baker Street. There she would watch the passerby with all the enthusiasm and interest of a young child. Perhaps it was only my fancy, but she seemed to pay strict attention to the window of our lodgings when she passed by, looking up as long as possible, with a slightly disappointed expression when no one was there.

She had the most fascinating way of inadvertently leading me into conversations involving my friend's adventures. With relish she would listen to the details of A Study in Scarlet and especially a Scandal in Bohemia, not so much on the crime itself, but with numerous questions on exactly how Holmes had arrived at his deduction. With foolish shame I admit half suspecting she was a spy implanted by whatever vestiges of Moriarty and Co. were left in London. Soon I dismissed it; for I flattered myself on being a good judge of character. However suspicious the circumstances, her demeanour was altogether too sincere. I merely dismissed her as one of those who took an intense interest in the few chronicles I had published of Holmes' adventures.

Her appearance was quite tall, slender with dark brown hair and a somewhat dark complexion, quite unusual for a London music teacher. There were traces of lines under those eyes and in her face that indicated past anxiety, as though she was slowly recovering from a time of depression. Most interesting, however, was her uncertainty of action, of when to curtsy and what exactly to say in what situation.

Her tastes in music were impeccable and would have coincided with Holmes remarkably. Opera, in particular seemed to be one of her particular favourite topics. She possessed a remarkable voice and with great pleasure sang some of my favourite arias at my request. During one of these small performances she sang a hauntingly unfamiliar one, unlike that which I had ever heard. I inquired what it was.

"Un Bel di Vedremo from Madame Butterfly" she replied, with a questioning and puzzled expression.

I farther inquired who wrote it.

"Puccini. Have you not heard of….?." There was a long pause. And she seemed to search for something to say.

I replied that I indeed heard of Puccini, but I had not heard of an opera called Madame Butterfly.

With a smile she straightened.

"My mistake, Doctor. It was written by an aspiring young composer, a good friend of mine. I sing it so often and am so fond of it that I often forget it has not even been performed nor published."

Then, closing the piano, she turned the conversation to other matters.


	4. Chapter 4

Weeks slipped by quickly and the weather turned into those cold foggy days so closely associated with London. The oddly intriguing behaviour and , I must say, charming attractiveness of Miss Eastman prevented me from discontinuing my meetings with her. I was not thinking the wildly romantic thoughts of a young lover, yet I felt something stronger than friendship. I suppose the only thing to describe it as would be fascination.

Week after week I discovered slight discrepancies in her character. She was very well-educated and seemed to express feelings of fervent patriotism, yet when I turned the conversation to recent, fairly well known political developments she knew little or nothing. Of course, there was the incident involving the mysterious Puccini aria. Most puzzling of all, however, was her amazement with her surroundings, the uncertainty of action which marked her demeanour, particularly in the early part of our acquaintance. With the passing of time, these qualities seemed to lessen rapidly, however, so perhaps, looking back, some of these were mere trifles inspired by my desire to find her mysterious and fascinating. Whatever they were, they remain unanswered to this day.

Truly I wished to introduce to her to Holmes; I was consumed with a curiosity as to what observations he would make; what insights he could gather. One evening I mentioned this to him, describing in detail her behaviour and actions.

He listened patiently, with his pipe in his mouth and that infernal half-smile on his long face. His response was typical:

"My dear fellow, currently I am upon the heels of one of London's most spectacular blackmailers as well as its biggest practitioner of hypocrisy. Though I would be happy to oblige you I must remind you I am a consulting detective, not a fortune teller of young ladies' pasts. I am sure, given your natural turn with the fair sex, the lady will disclose if given time."

And that was that. Far be it from me to press farther.

"Who is this blackmailer?" I inquired with a hint of irritation at his previous response.

"Not this blackmailer, Watson… the blackmailer. You perhaps remember the case of Charles Augustus Milverton? "

How could I not remember it? The sight of the tall, elegant young woman seeking justice for her husband would always remain in my memory, as well as our undercover escape from the police.

"Of course."

"I was mistaken in believing Milverton to be a rarity in his low-life activities. Another, perhaps even worse has resurfaced in London: one Edward Staunton. In contrast to Milverton, Staunton is not so scrupulous in his choice of victims. Anyone who has done nothing but indiscreetly held a lady's hand can be made to look corrupt by Staunton. Much like our late friend Moriarty, Staunton's genius lies in the fact he has chosen his connections so carefully as to convincingly conceal his activities. A bastion of London citizenship, all neatly and conveniently accounted for by a socially prominent wife and two cherub-like stepchildren to dote on and take for carriage rides… while many innocent people's lives are permanently ruined. He's led me on a merry chase these past few weeks! But the net closes in."

"But how does he accomplish this without being caught red-handed?"

"A network, Watson. A web of connections that specialise in blackmail, all with their share in the profits. . I have determined there must be at nearly a dozen scattered throughout London… with some quite nearby…" At this he looked out the window, than back at me as though thinking whether to say something, then resumed. "Staunton need never reveal himself and most likely the majority of his contacts have no knowledge of him. He simply targets a victim, informs the appropriate people, collects the profits, then resumes writing his speeches for charitable society events. "

"How would one catch such a man?"

"Indeed, that is exactly the problem. It is that all too familiar situation in which the criminal must be caught red-handed. It is a challenge I will eagerly pursue, however, for no-one is more dangerous than the one who practices evil under the guise of concern for humanity."


	5. Chapter 5

Dr. John H. Watson stood there, acknowledging me politely with a nod and a smile. So matter of fact. There, was no drama, no grandiose Hollywood dream sequence and entrance… I was simply there , in my own world one minute, and here, in his world, the next.

It took me several minutes of frantically jumbled thought as I lay in bed to determine that it was really Dr. Watson to whom I had just been introduced. He was not quite like I pictured him. Nearly six feet in height, strongly built, and alert, light brown eyes that reflected concern with a gentlemanly demeanour that I had sadly never experienced.

My mind raced… but soon decided to quit rationalising why I was here. Did it really matter by what means I had came here? To me it didn't. God or some force of destiny had seen fit to place me here, and whether I was here for a few minutes or forever, I felt I needed to make the most of it. I managed to murmur a few words and smile , partly out of amusement when Watson took my hand to leave the room.

I will not attempt to describe everything I felt and experienced those first few weeks… it is altogether too much to capture on paper and the resulting description would appear unbelievable. My injury thankfully provided a fairly convincing alibi concerning my confusion over things.

I soon discovered I had a housekeeper, Agnes Frederick, an amiable yet rather stern and secretive woman. Through painfully subtle inquiry and conversation with her I discovered the basic facts of my personal life.

Then, as I recovered from my accident , came those visits and walks with Dr. Watson. Nearly every other evening I would hear the doorbell ring with a smile, ready to accompany him for our regular walk through the square. Through our talks I soon became painfully aware of my lack of detailed knowledge concerning turn of the century British society.

Yet there was one aspect of my demeanour I found difficult to conceal: my desire to meet Sherlock Holmes. During of each of our meetings I convinced congenial Watson to take me for a stroll on Baker street. Each and every time I stared up into that window. I caught glimpses of his armchair, and once of Mrs. Hudson drawing the curtains…. But none of him.

Watson mentioned vaguely he was off on "some case or another"-I had a difficult time inducing him to talk about Holmes, for more often than not he was more interested in what I had to say. Once or twice I came on the brink of asking Watson for an introduction…. But I was fairly convinced that no proper Victorian lady did that unless it involved business.

Weeks passed, and I grew impatient. Surely I was here for a purpose. Why had I not yet met Mr. Sherlock Holmes?

Despite this disappointment my spirits were remarkably high . How could they not be? I was here, in this world which I had only read about, which though not perfect, at least tried.

After my recovery I "resumed" giving music lessons. Apparently my talent was fairly well known in this area of London and I had nearly a dozen students. Most of them were all a pleasure to teach and, if they were not all talented they were certainly well disciplined, so much so that modern researchers in child behaviour would find them abnormal.

Among my students were: Jesse Stone, a remarkably talented, red-haired gentleman of 10, Sylvia Waldon, a shy, dark-eyed little thing, and Cheryl Staunton, a blonde haired girl of 8 who appeared to be a bit spoiled and was from a well to do family. Although my services included travelling to my pupils' houses within a reasonable distance, her stepfather Mr. Staunton brought her to my door every Wednesday afternoon. Twice I conversed with him and although he was very courteous, even to the point of flattery, something intangible in his demeanour made me shrink from him.

Soon I even gained a new pupil, a wiry, freckled and rather mischievous 11 year old boy who showed up on my doorstep with his father one lazy Saturday afternoon.

"Miss Eastman, the teacher of piano, I presume? I am John P. Woodruff. This is my son Robert, a extraordinarily gifted boy, willing and eager to learn and develop his musical talents. Might we step in and arrange something?" said Mr. Woodruff, one hand resting on his grinning son's shoulder as he stood with one foot already in the doorway.

"Yes, indeed, come in." I showed them the way to the drawing room. We sat down on the sofa and arranged the schedule and my pay for teaching Robert.

Again, there was something I found about Mr. Woodruff I found intuitively intriguing which I could not quite explain. He was tall and wiry like his son, with a neatly trimmed beard and spectacles, which he took off and fidgeted with in the most annoying manner. But more interesting was his eyes. They were brilliant, intelligent eyes, inconsistent with his affectation-filled, fidgety demeanour. When we first met, those eyes seemed to search me up and down, sizing me up as coolly and efficiently as a scanner. But, when we at last sat down, that quality seemed to be gone. His eyes were as dull and unassuming as any man you might meet on the street. Perhaps I had imagined it.

That night I felt more restless than ever. For there was one possibility that remained unanswered…. that I had not yet experienced. I looked out at the window at the moonlight shining on the fog, at the angle where Church Street met Baker. Always I had loved the crisp, clean feel of cold night air... Agnes was out at some charitable function…. Why not go for a stroll? I put on a long cloak over my long gray dress, glad to shed myself of that uncomfortable corset for the time being.

Would he be there? I wondered anxiously as I strode briskly down the street, nearly empty except for a carriage now and then and the occasional street peddler.

Gradually I saw the dim light shining from the window of 221b Baker Street. I found a corner far away from the nearest street lamp and gazed up at it…the curtains were drawn and again, no one there.

It was shameful to be chasing and daydreaming after a man in such a fashion, perhaps even in my world…. But I felt no shame.

Was I in love? At that time I did not like to describe my affection with that phrase. "In love" was one of those phrases I had heard assigned to all sorts of things… relationships ending in indifference, marriages quickly ending in heart-breaking or not so heart-breaking divorce, senseless teenage love affairs on prom night, even perverted relationships…. Surely what I felt now was more than all that.

I recalled my older sister's happiness when she brought home her fiance, a likable, attractive young man. The smile on my sister's face was one of innocent, radiant happiness. Having had some knowledge of the young man's dubious past I very, very gently had asked her to consider if she was making the right decision.

"Becky.." she beamed. " you don't love someone because they're perfect or good. .. the key to love is forgiveness.. overlooking a man's little imperfections. Love is not a matter of logic, it's feeling, knowing in your heart that he's the right one that you'll love always. But you'll know that, when your time comes." She winked. I smiled. She was genuinely happy, I could see. Everything would be all right then… perhaps love was such a blind, mystical force that it would work.

One year later my sister filed for divorce on the grounds of adultery. I tried to comfort her as she cried... Good God, was that really love?

But if what I felt right now wasn't love, what was it? Intellectual admiration? Well, certainly that was part of it. To start with I could also say it was profound respect for his self-discipline, intense admiration at his principles….ah, but words and logic only go so far in expression. One seems to always come back to emotion…

I became conscious of shadows behind the curtain of the window and I looked up quickly. I saw the silhouette of a tall, thin, rather loose-limbed figure, with his back toward the window.

Slowly Sherlock Holmes raised something to his left shoulder.

Of course, I thought with a delighted smile… and eagerly awaited to hear what intricate piece he would play. To my surprise, there came neither the solemn notes of Mendelssohn or Brahms but the lingering strains of a simple, slow, and sweet folk tune, I instantly placed some of the words to it, written by the Scottish poet Burns.

_O my love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June_

_O my love is like a melody that's sweetly sung in tune_

Reason and emotion, I mused. So hard to tell where one ends and the other begins!


	6. Chapter 6

My Jezail bullet wound was insistent on plaguing me with a dull aching throb , consistent with my restless mood and the gray, dreary days that followed.

In truth, it was my present status in life that was troubling me. Here I was, fairly able-bodied and relatively young, and what exactly was I doing with my God-given time on earth? Assisting Holmes with his cases? Well, perhaps, but of late he seemed preoccupied, unwilling to call upon whatever services I rendered in the past and addressing me with annoyingly vague language.

That is not to say I resented Sherlock Holmes; I can honestly say I could never hold a grudge against the man for long, no matter how he might try my patience. His nature was far too amiable and his friendship too dear to me to ever do that. No, my feelings were more introspective.

With much thanks to the help of my friend, my time of mourning had passed, and I felt ready to reenter the professional world , to have the fulfilment of working at my own trade… and perhaps, of being a family man once again. In part, these thoughts were awakened by my walks with Miss Eastman.

It was not so much her beauty; as I have said, she was not an extraordinarily attractive woman. Rather it was her gentleness, sincerity, yet admirably practical demeanour that I admired so. Fondly I would recall to mind how she placed her slender but strong hands on the piano keys, her brightly intelligent look, her sincere but sometimes sorrowful expression. It was not passionate love I felt but a kind of longing fondness… the memories of what joy and comfort a couple can give to each other. The poignant, secure feeling of disclosing that hidden store of emotion to one person.

Did my friend ever entertain such thoughts? I fancifully pondered. Did that cold, proud, and admirably disciplined mind ever secretly long for the company of an intelligent woman, to enter his sacred threshold of private thought and feeling? Surely he was not incapable of such longing, even on a purely practical level. One thing was certain; if he had any such thoughts, he would never reveal the slightest hint of them, even to me.

Ah, but unfortunately I was, and still am, a far more emotional creature. Rebecca's feelings I was not certain of; she seemed to accept my attentions mostly on a friendly basis. Still, did she not allow and encourage my frequent visits? And what is life if we cannot hope for what seems excitingly difficult to attain? For while I regard prudency as a great virtue, I have found that an excess of it can ruin many a man's chances.

I took out my pocket watch; it was 4:30 in the afternoon. Soon it would be dark. With a deep breath I made my way once again to 168 Church Street.

Mrs. Frederick answered the door with a worried look and a rather sour expression. Rebecca came to the door, tastefully dressed in a simple gown of dark violet that complimented her figure admirably.

.She seemed genuinely pleased to see me yet puzzled. After all, it was later than I had ever called upon her; and the weather was certainly not conducive to a stroll.

"Dr. Watson! So good to see you on such a cheerless day. Please come in and warm yourself. May I bring you any refreshment?"

She spoke with in a quick, rather high-strung tone of voice. Oddly, she seemed nearly as nervous as I was, adding to the awkwardness of the situation. Perhaps I would have done well to exercise an extra ounce of prudence…but here I was. Should I feign small talk to begin with or get to the point and have done with it? I decided on the latter.

"No, thank you, Miss Eastman. I am actually here on a personal matter… one that involves us both." At this her expressive eyes began to show concern. I continued . "for some time now, as you aware, we have been continuing in what I hope you will consider as the warmest of friendships. But like everything else… relationships change… people change." My words came out sounding insufficient and childish in a manner Holmes would have scoffed at. "and often, a friendship and likeness of minds can mature into love. Into a desire to give that person more than conversation and attention.."

I took her hand in mine and prayed I would not have to speak farther. In a short while she forced her eyes to meet mine.

"Dr. Watson… John." She said, allowing her hand to exert a slight pressure on mine."I assure you that I regard our relationship as the warmest friendship I have ever had the fortune to experience. But affection—love- is not something to be lightly entered into.."

"And I assure you, Rebecca, that I am not lightly entering into it." Said I , pained upon seeing the sorrowful expression in her remarkable eyes.

"But you know so little, if anything, about me. We would not suit each other … At least, I would not suit you after a while… " I looked out the window, stiffening my jaw. I had not expected rejection to impact me so sharply.

"Then, Miss Eastman, I apologie for intruding. Allow me to excuse myself and bid you good evening."

I instantly regretted the coldness of that sentence.

She turned and spoke gently. "you're a good man, John, and what's more, a wise one. I only pray that you will find someone worthy of you; to appreciate your goodness and make you very happy."

I saw that she was in earnest, but I could say no more. I tipped my hat and strode back to Baker Street, chiding myself the whole way.

A young lady, obviously emotionally distressed, hurriedly but gracefully brushed past me as I entered our lodgings. The pale young man accompanying her inclined his head to me solemnly as they exited.

"Interesting guests you entertain." I said out loud as I wearily hung my overcoat, although I saw no one.

He emerged from under the writing desk, neatly organising and piling the books and papers that had long lain scattered during his time of mental inactivity.

"More interesting than I expected, Watson," he said, perusing one of his volumes of information. "The young lady who so tragically brushed past you seems to have fallen victim to our friend Staunton."

I rather sulkily settled into a nearby armchair to hear this out; it seemed a long time since Holmes had disclosed anything specific regarding his clients' cases to me.

"The situation is not unfamiliar. The lady is of a socially prominent family, the name of which you would undoubtedly recognise. She is of marriageable age and has entered into an engagement with a gentleman of equally noble lineage. It is quite an idyllic match… love, money, her widowed mother's wholehearted approval…. But there is, of course a problem. Some years ago the girl rashly involved herself with a handsome, eloquent scoundrel of low repute. In secret, letters were exchanged and expensive gifts were given. These fell into the wrong hands and were no doubt bartered for in underground web of blackmail."

I raised an eyebrow at his slightly sarcastic tone but continued to listen.

"Recently there came the proverbial anonymous telegram requesting money of the publication of these letters, which would in all likelihood ruin the girl's chances at happiness. Twice the girl's brother, the somber young man escorting her, has been forced to meet with and pay an anonymous personage…. A woman, tall in stature and heavily veiled, whom he claims can be traced to our area of Westminster. The indignant young man wishes me to discreetly accompany him and see what I can make of it."

"Rather risky, I should say, Holmes."

"Ah, experience has made you shrewd, my dear fellow. For this reason I ask you the favour of accompanying me to the basement of 129 George St, tonight at 10."

At this I brightened somewhat. "With pleasure."

"It is, as you say, quite risky, not only to ourselves but perhaps to our client. If we are not able to catch and directly link this connection to Staunton ,all will come out. Scotland Yard, our ever vigilant pillar of protection, is naturally reluctant to pursue the case, given Staunton's favourable public image."

"Understood. Risk has never prevented me from assisting you, Holmes."

He smiled warmly. "I know, Watson. Now, then, I suggest you bring your revolver. Don't be alarmed…It will in all probability be a slight confrontation… a small conundrum hardly worthy of a place in your chronicles."


	7. Chapter 7

I had seen it in his eyes for days, perhaps weeks , and neither had the courage nor will to break off our relationship. I assured myself it was harmless, merely the warm affection of a platonic relationship. What a fool I was to forget that this was not my world; that a man expresses his emotions far more implicitly, with a tasteful subtleness more sincere than any gushing outpour.

All the same, I knew, with a woman's intuition, what he had came for.

If it had been any other time, my good Watson…. I thought, and not for the first time… If at this moment we were standing in my apartment , and you asked this honour of me, there would be no confusion, no doubt in my mind as to the eagerness of my answer. In my world of muddled uncertainty, with no one to understand or comprehend, I would have clung to your firm but gentle demeanour as surely as the ivy of England. Yet, as it is… I decisively refuse you.

I saw that he was the kind of man that took no vow lightly. I would be his comfort, his motivation, the object of most of his undivided attention. How could I humiliate and dishonour him, even unwittingly, by giving him less? Forever my attentions would be divided, diverted to one who was so close to him…

Or was it that, really? Was my rationalisation for refusing him so selfless and noble? Or was it my own desire to have my chances at another possibility, that I had only dreamed of since adolescence? For although the fulfilment of that possibility was highly improbable, it was too precious to dismiss altogether.

In this manner I sat on the sofa by the window, watching John Watson's even, broad step as he strode out of sight into the London fog.

I found Agnes had been standing near me for a while now, politely waiting for any sign of awareness from me. I composed myself.

"My apologies, Agnes. What did you ask?"

"I was asking, mum, if I might take leave of you tonight. There is a ladies' meeting of the local Charitable Society, near Charing Cross, and I've promised to be there."

I raised my eyebrows slightly. "Another charitable function? They certainly keep you busy as a volunteer." I said, smiling. "Yes, by all means go. "

She did not smile nor look me directly in the eye.

"I might come home rather late... we've much to discuss."

"Of course… please take your time." Said I absently.

A walk, in my opinion, is the best way to clear one's mind, and quietly reflect. And , as I needed both of these things badly, I went.

But the weather was far too cold.. and it did me no good to forever be reflecting . What's done was done; and surely it was far better to make your position known than remain on ambiguous terms? So,on that note, I returned home, having walked only a short distance.

I rounded the corner just in time to observe Agnes exit the house, dressed in rather plain, dark clothes and an oddly shaped hat with a pulled down veil. She quickly glanced around with the nervous look of a wild animal, and , failing to see anyone, called what appeared to be a taxi.

"129 George St., driver." She said with a barely audible voice, carefully climbing into the coach.

Now my attentions were somewhat more alert. My knowledge of London geography, though scarce, indicated that George St. was definitely not in the direction of Charing Cross.

Thoughts that I had pushed to the back of my mind resurfaced. Why did Agnes seem so nervously anxious, cold, and secretive? From what I understood, she had been with me since my "parents" supposedly died. Surely a relationship of several years would mature beyond such courteous formality?

129 George St…. I am not one of those who people generally categorise with clichés such as "high-spirited" or , in American terms, "spunky". In general I would always lean more towards conservative, disciplined action. But…spontaneity within reason has always appealed to me. After all, I had nothing to lose if I didn't find anything out of place.

"129 George St, driver" said I after calling a hansom.

I arrived at my destination around 9 PM. I looked around cautiously. There was nothing very suspicious about the place; it looked much like Church Street, although slightly less prosperous, with the rows of plain houses neatly arranged on either side of the street. It was considerably less crowded, however, with only the sparsely distributed street lamps to decorate its bareness.

Number 129 looked the same as any one of these, with a light in the main parlour. I chided myself for coming. Surely Agnes was merely visiting a friend or some such matter? It was no business of mine to intrude upon her private affairs.

Someone had extinguished the light in the main parlour. My curiosity persisted and I remained to see if Agnes would come out. Ten or so minutes elapsed and there was no sign of her. Slowly I made my way behind the house. A high wall with a gate enclosed the building from the back, while bushes and ivy grew all around the house itself.

My eyes strained to see any entrance to the house; there seemed to be one near an especially thick clump of bushes. I tried it; it was unlocked. I nearly stumbled and fell with my first step, however, for I found that the door led to a long staircase, descending to a sort of large cellar-like attachment.

Slowly I felt my way down with the handrail. It was abandoned and pitch black. I shivered from the damp cold despite my heavy coat. Surely this was going too far…

Somewhere I heard the sound of steps creaking heavily from another entrance. I was too far away from where I had entered to make an escape, so I quickly groped my way along the wall until I found a large stack of indiscernible objects and hid myself.

Two dim lights seemed to float down another staircase and make their way into the cellar. Straining my eyes, I saw that it was Agnes, carrying a kerosene lamp. Close behind her was a man,thick and powerfully built, with a thick black beard. He spoke roughly, disturbing the calm silence of the cellar.

"Did you unlock the entrance?"

"It was never locked." Said Agnes in a weary, rather bitter tone.

The man seemed visibly irritated as he set the lamp down on a nearby barrel and turned it up. "Remember, you're to do just as I told you. Don't get any silly feminine notions in your head and lose your calm. If you do your part, you can return home safely… and richer, for all that." He grinned, his teeth greatly contrasting with the darkness of his black beard.

I shivered from the cold and hoped they would leave soon—but no such sign of that happening .The minutes passed and they continued to talk, the man doing much of the speaking as Agnes sat by the lamp, her dark eyes expressing anxiousness and worry.

It did not take me long to discover that they were evidently waiting on someone… and not with good intentions. But what, exactly, and how was Agnes involved?

The man took out his pocket watch.

"Philip promised to bring him at a quarter til. I think we can count on their punctuality. Get back in the corner." He said, extinguishing both their lamps.

A short period of time elapsed. The door through which I had entered opened. I gingerly glanced up at the figures that entered, silhouetted against the moonlight.

A tall man with a rather youthful springy step came first, bearing a candle while edging his way down the staircase. An even taller man followed behind him, whose face was indiscernible by the dim light of the candle. The taller figure retreated into the shadows, while the young man stood rather resolutely in the darkness, his pale blue eyes illuminated by the single candle.

There were footsteps, and once again Agnes emerged from the shadows with her kerosene lamp. She had drawn the veil over her face. The scene seemed as a whole, surreal and rather melodramatic."You demand a high price, madam… too high." The young man said, his stance firm. "My sister is tired of slinking around like the lowest of criminals. Perhaps we shall tell and have done with it. "

"I took you for a smarter man than that." said Agnes in a strained tone of voice. "I am sure honour and wedded bliss is too dear to your sister to have it marred by an indiscreet dalliance."

"Truly, then… I have no alternative." Said the young man, sighing and reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat.

Swiftly he lunged into a corner, where there was swift, blurred movement and the sound of scuffling feet. He emerged with the taller man who had accompanied him, dragging him by the collar. The lamplight illuminated his face.

It was not an unfamiliar face. From descriptions and my own imagination I would have known him by the shape of that angular jaw and his long loose limbed body. But his eyes, brightly alert and intelligent… I knew I had seen them before….

It is true that even an observer of above average perception would have failed to see the resemblance; but you must remember that I was looking for it, that I longed to see it.

So Watson spoke with truth, then, when he said that London lost its finest potential factor when Mr. Sherlock Holmes decided to become a detective. I thought of the spindly, bearded figure who had so ridiculously fidgeted with his spectacles while sitting in my parlour and, if not for the circumstances, I would have laughed out loud with both amusement and joy.

I turned my attention to the situation at hand. The pale young man had coolly pressed a revolver into Holmes' back while the rough bearded man had came out of hiding and held another a few inches from his head. Agnes stood not far away looking on with what appeared to be amazement.

The younger man smiled sardonically.

"So, Mr. Holmes… you failed to see past our little charade? I confess I was quite nervous, hearing of your scintillating talents of perception. But , then it's true that every man has his weaknesses."

Holmes eyes seemed to reflect worry. "Indeed, I scold myself for my blindness to the situation. You are in fact, working on behalf of Staunton."

The man smiled sardonically. " I am a cautious man, Mr. Holmes, and despite the fact that you will soon be silenced, you will extract no last-minute confessions from me. "

Now Holmes smiled, the corners of his mouth gently upturned, quickly glancing over the man's shoulder , than back at him. "I compliment you on your astuteness, sir. It appears I am undone, then. As you say, every man has his weakness."

There was a sharp click and a revolver was held, not three inches from the young man's temple. Watson cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"Ever punctual, as usual Watson." Said Holmes cheerily. " I suggest you both drop your weapons. Being an avid sportsman, Dr. Watson is, as our friends over the Atlantic say, 'fast on the draw' ."

"I did manage to bring additional help." Said Watson dryly, giving a short, low whistle. Two policemen clattered down the stairs. The light streamed in from the light of their lamps.

Evidently the skirt of my violet dress, extending from out of my hiding place caught Watson's eye, for he bounded into the corner with his revolver and, grabbing, my arm, pulled me forward. Complete astonishment was written on his face when he saw who I was.

"Hullo… what's this?" said Holmes, coming to stand in front of me. Our eyes met.

"This is Miss Rebecca Eastman, a lady I know well and who is obviously one of Staunton's "connections", shall we say?" Watson spoke in a low, angry tone ,the strong grip of his hand clutching my right arm.

"Easy, my dear Watson. Though I confess I am quite at a loss to what Miss Eastman is doing here, I can assure you she is not connected to this blackmail network in any way, save that her housekeeper, Agnes Frederick, is evidently employed by Staunton." He turned to Agnes, who looked frightened and pitiful, then back to me. "So, then, I suggest you let go of the young lady's arm."

Slowly Watson released it and stared at me.

"Then, exactly what are you doing here, Miss Eastman?"

I felt like a girl of 13, standing before the two men. This was not the idyllic meeting I had envisioned. Holmes did not relieve the situation's embarrassment as he towered over me, with his cold, bright eyes amusedly searching me up and down.

"I … followed my housekeeper… her—I mean she- seemed to be acting suspiciously.. so I followed her here and hid to see what she was doing." I stared down at the floor.

Apparently my answer was satisfactory to Holmes. "I thought as much, for it is indeed the only possible explanation." Again he looked at me. "No doubt, Miss Eastman you are alarmed and confused by this whole incident, then. Allow me to introduce myself…"

I took a deep breath. Now was the time to be bold, to at least try to appear confident and intelligent. Nervously I interrupted.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Woodruff." Said I, trying to sound clever and not coy. "We are, in fact, well acquainted with each other. I give music lessons to your son, Robert, a remarkably gifted boy, every Wednesday afternoon."

Holmes' calm face reflected no surprise as I had expected. Instead, a smile of mirth played about his lips before he broke out into a hearty chuckle."I congratulate you, Watson, on an acquiring such an astute acquaintance."He said to the doctor, who now stood between us, evidently not knowing what to think. Composing himself, Holmes turned to me. "I hope, Miss Eastman, you will forgive my little masquerade. It was entirely necessary, I assure you, in order to achieve my purpose."

I nodded, though in fact not much, if anything was clear to me, except for the fact that I was standing before Sherlock Holmes.

"And now, the matter of your housekeeper, Mrs. Frederick."

Agnes stepped forward, the policeman still clutching her arm.

"I'll tell anything you want to know about Staunton, sir. But I swear to you that I knew nothing about the true purpose for my coming here. They assured me there would be no violence."

"Yet you are in fact, under Staunton's employ."

She bowed her head. " I have no defence to that sir, except for the fact that I needed money –not for myself—but for my daughter, in a boarding school far away from here. Ms. Eastman can only pay me so much… indeed her income of late is scarcely enough to live comfortably and I would not dare ask her for more. Tom, here-" She said, her eyes pointing in the direction of her "is a distant cousin of mine who set me up with Staunton nearly a year ago. My work was simple at first… sometimes I would be required to keep records or write the occasional letter. I did not even know who exactly I was working for until recently… Nevertheless, I knew what I was doing. I only ask that you be somewhat lenient with me for the sake of my daughter. Ms. Rebecca will tell you of my good , and I believe, reliable service in the past." She looked pleadingly in my direction.

Holmes glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

"Agnes has, as long as I have known her, been reliable and otherwise of good character." I said. "surely leniency can be applied?"

Holmes nodded. " Mrs. Frederick is both cooperative and I, believe, cognisant of her fault. Far be it from me to bring a judgement ; many good people may have done likewise. However sympathy does not change fact. I cannot promise anything as to the action of the courts—" Agnes lowered her head.

"I can promise a fine barrister, however. And, with such a defence, it is safe to say your sentence will be far lighter than usual." Agnes nodded.

We emerged out of the basement into the moonlight. The three of us standing on George Street. Watson remained silent, whether out of embarrassment or anger I could not be sure.

"It appears, Miss Eastman, there is no taxi you could take home to Church Street."He said, searching up and down the rather barren street. "You may take the hansom which we came in."

"No- thank you, Mr. Holmes" I said, still in a state of bewilderment. "I can walk to the nearest street."

Holmes raised his eyebrows at my rather foolish remark.. "Even on the warmest of nights it would be unwise for a woman to walk unaccompanied in London at this hour of the night. Watson and I can ride with the police cab. Please.. " he said, opening the door of the hansom for me. I obeyed.

"168 Church St, driver" he said, tipping his hat courteously to me. Watson feebly did the same.

From the window of the carriage, my eyes continued to follow Mr. Sherlock Holmes' footsteps until he was out of sight.


	8. Chapter 8

Painfully I lumbered out of bed to avoid being blinded by the sunlight that streamed in from my window, conveniently striking my bed at just the right angle. The clock on the nightstand read half past nine.

Even my friend, with his Bohemian irregularity, seldom arose this late in the day. I quickly dressed and washed, trying to not pause and think about the painfully embarrassing incidents of the previous night. But, one cannot deny reality.

Holmes had instructed me to follow him and the young man, with revolver in hand, on foot from the nearest street. I knew nothing except for the fact that a trap was obviously being set; so I summoned the assistance of the nearest policemen.

So shocked was I to see the young man's revolver pressed into Holmes' back, while a burly fellow held another less than four inches from his forehead. So this was the " slight confrontation that was hardly worthy of a place in my chronicles."

My amazement of that spectacle, however, was eclipsed when I dragged a figure hiding in the shadows into the light and found it was none other than Rebecca Eastman. My mind swiftly and imprudently made the connections: Rebecca's unusual interest in and questions about Holmes, her lack of knowledge and her recent move to London, and finally, her rejection of my proposal all came together in one obvious answer. So she had been working for Staunton all along…

Holmes approached us, obliterating my assumptions in a scene that would have fit it well with a Shakespearean comedy… and there I was in the middle, having behaved foolishly and in a most un-gentlemanly manner, letting my own emotions rule me.

I shook my head as I went downstairs to breakfast.

In contrast to me,Holmes looked remarkably collected and well rested as he sat at the breakfast table in his dressing gown, sipping tea and reading a telegram which he tossed in my direction as I sat down.

"News from our good friend Lestrade. With thanks to Mrs. Frederick's detailed information, Staunton has been apprehended. Oh, there'll be an uproar within London society!" He smiled, and I knew he was thinking of the public outcry from the "charitable" institutions Staunton had supported.

"And yet," said I taking tea from Mrs. Hudson. " little of this, if anything, is very clear to me, Holmes. On this case you have succeeded in keeping me in the dark until the very end."

He must have detected the hint of sourness in my speech, for he replied with a more gentle and earnest tone.

"No defence to that, my dear fellow." He said, putting his teacup down. "Except that I can assure you that my secretiveness was necessary to the delicacy of the situation. A more diplomatic man would have a tactful way of informing you , perhaps, but as it is… At any rate, I may tell you all now. Yet there is so much to tell… where shall I begin?"

"The beginning would be a most logical place." I said dryly.

He laughed in good humour. "Very well. You know for some time I was in pursuit of Edward Staunton. Not directly for him, for his social prominence was too strong- but for one of his connections that could be linked to him." I nodded. "From a usually reliable source who, you will remember, assisted me often with the hunt for Moriarty, I received information that one of Mr. S's connections could be traced to our part of London.. In fact, to Church Street. He described her as a 'tall, dark woman. A foreigner with little or no relations in England'. Your quick mind understands, of course, the woman to whom this description would appear to apply."

I nodded again. A small part of my confusion was clearing up.

"Did you imagine, that because I exercise the use of emotion so little, I would have failed to see it in your eyes as you returned from your walks with her every Thursday and Saturday evening? " He paused with a smile. "Incidentally, if you would have came on a Wednesday afternoon, you would have seen a gentleman, about my height, with gold rimmed spectacles and a beard, accompanied by a boy who remarkably resembles our young Billy. He came to bring his son for music lessons.. which, to Billy's delight, have been abruptly discontinued."

My mind slowly comprehended…I couldn't help but share in his amusement but maintained a pretended frown.

"…of course, due to these in incognito visits, I soon found that Staunton himself brought his daughter for piano lessons every Wednesday as well. Several other factors seemed to fall into place including the fact that she often walked down Baker Street and looked up at the window of our lodgings.." My face reddened slightly here.

"To a man predisposed to think what he will, these circumstances alone would have been enough to incriminate Miss Eastman. But not everything fell into place. Though it was evident that Miss Eastman had a marked , unusual uncertainty in her demeanour, she seemed completely innocent and uninvolved in any arrangements of blackmail. Also, I was aware you held her in very high regard- and , if I may say this without embarrassing you, Watson, you are an honest man with a good judgement of character—seldom prey to so obvious a deception. "

Truly, I was rather pleased to know that he had thought so. "Surely now, Holmes, that was more an assumption of feeling than of logic?"said I.

"On the contrary, my dear Watson, it was purely reason. I was acting partly based upon the good judgement of a friend, a rational man whom I know to be reliable. So, I instead questioned the reliability of the information given me. Very easily it could have been leaked by Staunton and Co. to throw me off the real trail… which, through close observation I discovered was Ms. Eastman's housekeeper. And, behold, yesterday, that melodramatic couple tragically waltzed into my office, requesting I accompany them to meet a blackmailer.

Ah, that was a poor move on the part of Staunton. You see, he sensed I was close upon his heels and so, wished to lure me into a trap in that cellar through his 'employees'. It was very shabby, however. Poor, poor acting. " He shook his head with the disdain of a professional artist at an amateur's pathetic replica.

"Through no great mental effort,I saw through the charade and therefore requested you follow close behind with your revolver.

Truly, concealing the details and information of the case was most disagreeable to me, having long been accustomed to confiding in you over the years. But I know you must see the position I was in. Over the course of the last few weeks, I saw you obviously were quite fond of the girl. Far be it from me to tell you so cruelly that she could be a criminal, gaining your affection for the purpose of thwarting my attempts at apprehending Staunton! Even last night, when you came in from her house so emotionally distressed, I could not have found an easy way to tell you all this…"

I acknowledge with a slight bow of my head.

"I do indeed, understand your difficult position, Holmes, and that your actions were mostly out of consideration for me… The fact remains, however, that due to my misinformation, I falsely accused her and behaved like a miserable ass last night."

Holmes shrugged. "Very few would have done differently, given the suspicious circumstances of the situation."

"That is neither here nor there. The truth of the matter is… I proposed to her yesterday."

Holmes raised his eyebrows slightly. "Ah… and she refused."

"Decisively. And, being predisposed to think ill of her, I quickly drew my own conclusions. I wish to make amends—but how, given the embarrassing situation?"

"Far be it from me to advise you on matters concerning women" laughed Holmes. "I can, however, offer some practical insight. Call on the girl today and explain everything. She seems intelligent enough to grasp the situation, and amiable enough to recognise that you are sincerely sorry for you actions."

This did, indeed, seem to be wise counsel, so I decided to take it. I turned one moment before leaving,however.

"One more question, Holmes."

"Yes?"

"You say that you recognised Miss Eastman's demeanour is quite singular and uncertain. Since she is, in fact, not involved with Staunton, what do you think accounts for that unusual behaviour?"

"You remember my principle, that, when you have eliminated everything that is known to be false, that which remains is true, no matter how improbable it may seem?"

"Yes." I said eagerly.

"Miss Eastman is one of those cases upon which this principle must apply. She is undoubtedly English, that one thing is certain. As to the rest, using that same form of deduction, it is safe to say that , until now, she has not been living anywhere within our English or even American society -as we know it."

"That's preposterous! English yet, until now, 'has not lived within English or even American society as we know it' ? Do you propose then, that she is actually a foreigner, from the continent, perhaps?"

"On the contrary… as I have said, from her manner and talk she is English and she was raised in England. But either she was raised in a corner of our English society that is extremely alien and unfamiliar to us or not raised in this society at all as we know it… Or, she is simply a clever impersonator, which I think can be eliminated as an impossibility. "

"You puzzle me Holmes." Said I, shaking my head. " Do you not desire to learn more?... do you not find it intriguing?"

"It is singular, no doubt. But, I do not claim the ability to see into every man's soul, his past and circumstances. I only have, through much sharpening and self discipline, an extremely accurate ability to gather information through deduction. Miss Eastman is not doing anyone harm ; she is not one of my clients nor, at present, involved in any of my cases. Perhaps we should leave it at that for now."

Rebecca did, as Holmes predicted, respond with amiability and understanding to my explanation of the previous night's events. I stayed but for a short while, however, for in the air there still lingered that sense of awkwardness of how to behave to each other.

"Tell me, Watson. What do you see when you first walk into our sitting room?" said Holmes sharply upon my return.

"I see the objects I have always seen, arranged in a much more chaotic order than they were yesterday." I said, amused.

"And how would you describe your impression of it as a whole?"

"Messy, disorganised."

"Precisely. Not an environment conducive to professionally receive clients nor for conducting business in..."

I saw what he meant. Sherlock Holmes, that great author of monographs upon the subject of graphology, had an unbearably illegible scrawl when keeping his records, which were often scribbled on looseleaf, then tossed on the floor for farther reference. He picked one such paper off the floor and perused it.

"...As you well know, It is neither Mrs. Hudson's nor Billy's place to remedy this. Therefore, I have decided to hire a secretary."

Both my eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Surely this is rather uncharacteristic, Holmes."

"Not at all. I am merely trying to improve upon and practice efficency. I do not have the time to keep neatly organised records of my cases and observed information. Someone else, for a small fee, would. It would be entirely out of my own pocket, of course. And, happily, it might even serve as a chance for you to 'make amends' with someone."

"…You are thinking of hiring Reb- "Miss Eastman !"

"Exactly. You have said before she has little income. Due to the Staunton case I have indirectly caused her to lose one student, and publicity that her housekeeper was involved in the affair will undoubtedly cause her to lose more. Provided she accepts the job, all parties will benefit: Her from the increased income, you by satisfying your conscience, and me by the cleaner workspace… she has good penmanship, I hope?"

"What? Oh.. yes-yes, most excellent…." Said I, once again in a state of bewilderment. "But, Holmes, do you not see how cursedly awkward it would be having her work here, after I proposed to her?

He waved his hand carelessly. "Formalities and proprieties seldom concern me as you know, Watson. And you are still on friendly terms with her, are you not? She would only work here once or twice a week, as needed. You are my partner and colleague, however. If you disagree I shall have to find someone else, though I daresay I will not be able to find anyone with less and cost and more convenience ."

I stopped to consider. Damnably awkward as it was, it was indeed a chance to offer some sort of reparation.. And she was living on so little income…

"As you wish, Holmes." I sighed.

"Excellent! Perhaps you could proffer the position to her tomorrow by tomorrow afternoon?"

"It would be far better if you accompanied me, Holmes, as you are to be her employer." I remarked, looking at him sharply.

"If you think it necessary."

The next day we made that well worn walk to from Baker to Church Street.


	9. Chapter 9

I sat on the window seat in my small quarters upstairs, a story above the bustle of Church Street. It was a peaceful place to reflect, with the sunlight streaming in gently through the windows upon the few pieces of furniture I owned… I attempted to immerse myself in an article of etiquette and fashion. My mind, however, kept drifting back to the incidents of two days ago.

As I have mentioned before, it was not the idyllic meeting I had envisioned. What must he have thought of me, standing there like a foolish school girl, going to such lengths as to spy on my housekeeper? And there here was the matter of John Watson. It had suddenly occurred to me that Watson had most likely confided in Holmes about his walks with me and the proposal...Oh, I blushed to thing what might have been communicated about the proposal.

Nevertheless, I had met Sherlock Holmes. He was not some fairy tale nor an invincible hero but a real, believable man, as I had always imagined him to be. Therefore, despite the embarrassment and awkwardness of it all, I remembered and would always remember our first meeting with a kind of priceless pleasure.

A shrill ring sounded from downstairs, interrupting my flow of thought. The doorbell…Surely it was not John Watson again? I rushed downstairs, taking a sideways glance in the mirror before I answered the door.

It was John Watson, and close behind him was Sherlock Holmes. Years of experience would never accustom me to the sight of Holmes and Watson standing there at my door, so matter of fact. I endeavoured to look calm and collected.

Watson tipped his hat. Holmes inclined his head stiffly. Watson spoke first.

"Pardon our intrusion, Miss Eastman, but we are here to discuss a business matter with you, particularly Mr. Holmes."

"Of course, please come in. You are aware that I am unfortunately without a housekeeper to properly receive you.. May I take your coats?"

They indicated the affirmative. No, they would take no tea, thank you. We walked into the parlour and sat down.

Holmes came directly to the point of their visit.

"Miss Eastman, as you are no doubt aware, I am a private consulting detective with no small number of clients. There are many tasks involved with this which I have neither the will nor interest to complete: record-keeping, filing, letters… My friend, Dr. Watson has assured me of your good character and capability"– Here I looked at the said doctor, who seemed to be blushing slightly-"I would like to offer you a position in the capacity of secretary. Pay would be _ £ an hour... but then you need only work once or twice a week, as needed at your convenience ..."

"I am honoured, gentlemen, that you would consider me for this position first. Certainly, I accept."

Holmes gave me the bright, amused look of one who is fascinated by an intriguing scientific phenomena.

" Of course, I am pleased at your acceptance, Miss Eastman… but do you not need time to consider?"

"As you know, Mr. Holmes, I have very little income, scarcely enough to support myself as well as pay a housekeeper her wages. Your offer gives me a chance to remedy this, with little inconvenience and expense. There is little else to consider."

I hoped he could not see my other reason for quick acceptance. Evidently he did not.

"I admire your practicality. It shows the signs of efficiency. One condition exists to this offer, however. I require you to remain in strictest confidence about whatever records you may read or come across during your employment. A single slip,carelessly but innocently uttered , could cost me much credibility as well as honour."

" Of course. You will find I am not inclined to talk much of others, least of all what I have been instructed to keep confidential."

Holmes nodded. "Then, Miss Eastman, I believe that is all."

He shook my hand firmly, and my hand, though it was not small, seemed to be engulfed by his long and broad one.

When I had showed them out and I was once again alone, the incident struck me as being extremely amusing.

Rebecca Eastman, M.B.A., rising executive of _ , Inc. and secretary of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

And for whatever foolishly intangible reason, the latter meant more to me.

I reported to work the next Thursday. Mrs. Hudson, a short and plump, motherly looking woman was warm and welcoming as she showed me in. Together we climbed the stairs as I carefully counted my 17 steps with a smile.

"Miss Eastman to see you, Mr. Holmes."

He had been lounging in his armchair, examining a cigar with his magnifying glass. He stood up slowly to accommodate the usual courtesy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Come in, Miss Eastman."

I entered. The room were not small but not large; both tastefully decorated, wih an air of comfort.

It was, however, obvious that the rooms were inhabited by two bachelors, despite Mrs. Hudson's apparent efforts to tidy up. I speculated that the worn shoe that lay slightly inside out next to the sofa was the infamous Persian slipper.

Two massive bookshelves stood against the wall. In them were encyclopedias, almanacs and books on a vast array of subjects, including beekeeping, music, and the frequent geology or botany. But none, I noted wryly of poetry or prose.

And there, on the opposite wall, as if the crowning glory to some proudly unconventional masterpiece were the initials. A little crooked, but still unmistakably spelling the letters V.R.

"Miss Eastman? Are you well?" He had been observing with utmost interest my observation of his room with the utmost interest.

"Oh… yes.. I was merely admiring the scope of your taste in literature." Said I, turning my eyes back to the bookshelf.

A kind of smile came across his face at this remark. I could not tell whether he was truly pleased or amused to see through my pitiful attempt at flattery.

I think it was the latter.

"Indeed, it is fortunate that you share some of my preferences, Miss Eastman… Now, to business… I am afraid I leave you with quite a workload for the next few days." He indicated the papers laying on the floor and writing desk with a sweep of his hand "… as well as any dictation I might require."

"I welcome hard work… where shall I begin?"

"Here, with the chaos of filing these records… it is formidable, I know, but you were forewarned.

It is more useful to me if you classify all papers that are records of a case in chronological order. Fortunately I have a book with the briefs of my cases which should prove useful." He produced a small worn book which he placed on the writing desk. "If, however the paper seems to record an observation about a person or for example, the different kinds of soil in the streets of London classify it in alphabetical order with the appropriate title… Do you have any questions?"

"No, you have made it quite clear." Said I.

"Then I leave you to your work. You do not object to tobacco, I hope?"

"Not at all… nor violin playing." I remarked with a glance at the open case on the small table.

He laughed. "Then I shall indulge in both. Please do not mind me in my activities, for I may remain silent for hours… Watson will assure you it is a habit of mine to sink into a uncommunicative trance whenever the mood strikes me. And ring for Mrs. Hudson if you need anything."

He inclined his head and sat down, resuming his intensely intricate study of the cigar.

I sat at the writing desk and began my work in silence. No words passed between us.

After what seemed a short period of reading and organising never-ending amounts of paper, the grandfather clock outside in the hall chimed 5 in the evening. I rose and Holmes looked up for the first time since my arrival.

"Well Miss, Eastman. I shall see you in two days. I shall pay you on Saturday if that suits you, although I could manage to produce money now."

"Saturday would be fine, thank you."

He showed me out.

We continued in this manner for the first few days.

With any other person I would have felt free to converse and charmingly chatter on. But with him I felt to engage in small talk would be a prepense… and a slight annoyance, as I found once when I ventured to comment that it was a lovely winter day and received a rather curt response.

But I longed to talk with him about more than the weather… to ask him of what he thought about certain things, of why he thought the way he did… and above all, to show him that I understood him to a certain extent. That for so many years, in my world that was years apart from his, he had stood for something very dear and close to me.

But how to communicate all this without sounding foolish and improper in his eyes? It could not be done.

And so, we continued in silence, with the exception of when he needed me to take down dictation for a letter or ask me a question relating to my work.

John Watson seemed to mostly be out of the house on business while I worked. I didn's blame him; for it was not a very agreeable situation. During one brief conversation with him I learned that he was planning on returning to his practice of medicine.

However, despite all this, my job was by no means disagreeable. After all, Holmes was paying me a fair wage to read and compile papers I was extremely fascinated in. Never had I thought Holmes had handled so many cases, some of which involved extremely famous personages. And, I also learned the secretive details of two of the most confidential cases in his career: The Giant Rat of Sumatra as well as The Lighthouse, the Politician, and the Trained Cormorant, which he in writing, had particularly instructed no one to divulge at any time. So, by the time my secretarial career had ended, I knew nearly as much about Holmesian case history as Watson.

During my hours of work Holmes would read and study, go out, or lounge in his armchair, seeming to be in a kind of meditative position.

I thought it strange that his perceptive eyes failed to see the interest with which I observed him in his daily activities… or did they?

One incident brought this question to mind, some weeks after I first began to work.

Holmes had broken the routine of previous weeks, and taking out his test tubes and beakers , was conducting a chemical experiment, with his back slightly turned towards me. I stole glances at him from time to time. Every sinew of his long muscular body seemed to be engaged and disciplined as he sat there, bending eagerly over his chemicals.

A cry abruptly startled me.

"I have found it! It is completed!" He said turning towards me.

I wondered if he had gone mad.

"Look, Miss Eastman!" He said, turning towards me with a test tube in his hand.

I glanced at its swirling, colourful contents, which meant absolutely nothing to me, given my neglect of chemistry since high school.. What did mean something to me was his reaction. His brilliant eyes were joyous, with all the innocent enthusiasm of a young child, asking me to look and be happy too in this discovery of knowledge.

Together we sat down and he explained to me the significance of his finding. And so, though I remembered little of reagents and hemoglobin, I couldn't help sharing in his exuberance. In that moment he sat, smiling at me with happiness and perhaps something else…

Whatever it was, it seemed to fade with the excitement of the experiment.

"I apologise for the outburst, Miss Eastman." He said with a composed face,glancing at the clock. "And I have kept you so late." Once again we were employer and employee.

"Not at all Mr. Holmes…" I said, looking directly at him, trying to find something farther to say. But, given my self conscious, reserved nature, I could not.


	10. Chapter 10

I made arrangements to resume my practice of medicine as the winter closed in. Perhaps it was partly due to the fact I reached my 40th year that first week of December… a most unwelcome reminder that my life would stagnate if I did not take action now.

I told Holmes of my decision, which would result in my vacating our present lodgings within the next few weeks. His face was unassumingly calm but from years of experience I knew it caused him pain that he would never admit to.

"Forgive me, Holmes. But believe me when I say that this signals no weakening of our friendship. It is simply a law of nature… things can never remain exactly the same. We are no longer young- at least, I do not feel young- and carefree. Even if it were so… it could never return to the way it was before Mary died…"

I endeavoured to control myself and look out the window. Perhaps I was a pitiful creature of emotion after all.

Holmes placed his hand on my shoulder. His sinewy grip had always a way of comforting me.

"You needn't have explained, old fellow. I saw it coming. And in no small way I comprehend your feelings too… For some time now I have felt it as well..as harsh and bitter as that wind that blows outside… and just as elusive to explain."

He looked out the window.. his gray eyes reflecting the dull gray background of outside.

"…That is one more oddity I may add to my study of human nature.. our longing for constancy. Somehow as we age we begin to long for it more… as though having a fixed point in our lives would comfort us."

He looked back at me after this soliloquy and smiled faintly.

"So, what corner of London will you be honouring with your presence?"

"A practice near South Kensington, as the junior partner of a Dr. Matthew Dassing. Dr. Jeremy Snow, whom I met when Miss Eastman was injured, kindly recommended me to him. He is an elderly gentleman with a profitable practice… the arrangement seemed agreeable in view of the fact that my current finances are not enough to start a practice of my own. And, as you know, it is close enough to where I would be able to come should you ever need my assistance."

"Of course…" he said, grasping my hand firmly. "God go with you, my dear fellow!"

The words continued to echo in my ears as I moved my belongings to my new lodgings.

Several weeks' time proved my decision had been for the best. Work stimulated me and refreshed me, both physically and mentally.

I frequented Baker Street often, however. However many friends and acquaintances I would accumulate it was only at Baker Street where I felt completely welcome. There was no air of pretension, no face contorted into the gesture of a smile, acting pleased to see me every time I walked in. Rather it was quite simple. I came and went freely. If Holmes was glad to see me he indicated so.. and if he was not he indicated that too.

So, 221B frequently became a welcome haven and resting place on the weekends.

Consequentially, I saw much of Rebecca Eastman. She looked better than ever before, as though the bitterly cold weather agreed with her. By some sort of unspoken mutual agreement we seemed to have done away with our awkwardness and embarrassment, resuming friendly conversation.

One snowy Saturday afternoon I happened to see her on the street. We greeted and she inquired about the success of my practice.

"Busy, of course… but highly fulfilling." I smiled. "And your position? How do you fare with my friend?"

"My position is quite to my liking. As to Mr. Holmes, he treats me with due respect and mostly leaves me alone to my work."

I smiled again. "Many young ladies would find it exasperating to have such an uncommunicative employer."

She shrugged. "I am sure no harm is intended. It his simply in his nature to be uncommunicative- perhaps he could not change it even if he wanted to."

"I do not think it as simple as that, Miss Eastman. As you know I have shared lodgings with Mr. Holmes for many years and still he is an enigma to me, a man of conflict and inconsistency."

"How so?" Her brown eyes seemed to light up with interest.

"There are too many instances to enumerate… I can only give a general description. For instance, I have known him to be coldly dispassionate in many cases,and in others simply burning with indignation. He proclaims an aversion to works of art and /or philosophy, yet often I have known him to be visibly moved by a symphony or on occasion a natural object. And, most notably, while he professes a philosophy that calls for an abhorrence of all emotion, he has shown me the most real and genuine regard that any man could show for a friend."

I stopped… perhaps I had said too much. Rebecca, however, still seemed intensely interested.

"Surely, John, the very fact that these inconsistencies exist indicate that his character is not completely devoid of emotion… of love?"

She looked down at the ground quickly, rather embarrassed.

So that was how things stood. It had honestly never occurred to me. Yet now it made perfect sense.

I will not say how or why, but somehow this unwitting revelation of Rebecca's made me feel considerably better, soothing whatever hurt was left from her rejection of my proposal. Perhaps it was the fact that it cleared up many of my questions about her sometimes unusual behaviour. And then, it was not entirely disagreeable of me to think of Holmes and Rebecca as a couple, though it was extremely improbable it would ever come to that.

I turned to Rebecca.

"You could very well be correct in that, Miss Eastman… I cannot say for certain. I only know that whatever emotion he is capable of burns far stronger than the average man… it is not in his nature to commit himself to anything with half a heart, as so many men do."

I came again a week afterward. Rebecca sat at the writing desk, working while Holmes sat in his armchair, plucking his violin absently. I had been reading a newspaper quietly for some time.

Holmes stood up suddenly and broke the silence with his abrupt voice.

"You can play this, can you not, Miss Eastman?" He thrust a copy of a Mendelssohn violin sonata with piano accompaniment in front of her.

"Yes.. I can." She said simply and slightly bewildered.

"Be so good as to accompany me now." And he directed her to the small piano in the corner.

She did as instructed, unused to such an action from him but nonetheless playing admirably and with great skill.

Holmes did likewise in his usually unconventional fashion, his eyes half closed, fiddling wildly at times and at others exaggerating the sweet, pulsating tones.

It was a treat watching the two play… Rebecca's hands skillfully worked themselves across the keys, keeping up and matching Holmes whimsical tempo as his long arm flailed away on the strings.

At the end of the first movement I applauded enthusiastically.

Holmes shook his head with what seemed to be disappointment. Rebecca looked at him concernedly.

"There is much lacking in your playing, Miss Eastman. It is entirely devoid of expression."

Rebecca sat up, her face flushed and her jaw stiffening slightly. I sympathised with her anger. What right or cause had Holmes to so heavily criticise her meticulous playing?

"Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Holmes?" She said coldly.

"Oh, you play with much obvious practice and training it is true. No doubt you think you are playing with actual expression.."

"Other musicians, of much greater skill than I, seem to have thought so too, Mr. Holmes."

"Therein lies the problem! You, like so many others rely on what they, the elite, the infallible gods of musical skill tell you is expressive, than you endeavour to imitate it exactly. I suppose that they told you that you must articulate this passage thus?" He pointed to a line with his bow and began to play it, emphasizing the proper dynamics.

"They did…and I think it is safe to say that they would regard your playing as completely unconventional, with utterly no regard for the written music as Mendohlsohn intended it. Music is governed by laws like everything else. To change the laws of articulation is to change how the composer intended the piece to sound."

Holmes shook his head. "And that… is the very reason why I confine myself to playing in the comfort of these walls, Miss Eastman. Of course any musician must realize music is governed by laws and reason. That is the very reason why it is beautiful. But it is nothing if one does not add individual expression...then you are merely in the place of a machine, a performing monkey who has learned his trade well. Music, like everything else has a purpose behind it...The composer creates it with a specific idea and then it is the performers responsibility to bring his own talent and beauty to that idea, just as different actors bring variety to one character."

"Are you actually suggesting, Mr. Holmes, that one must employ the use of feeling and emotion to a piece of music?" said Rebecca. It was a simple query, but a valid one. Eagerly I waited for his answer.

"I think you are perhaps mistaken in your notions of my views, Miss Eastman." He said with a quick, sharp glance at me. "To deny the existence of feeling is absurd. I merely hold that emotion is ridiculous,abhorrent, and even destructive unless it is governed by the firm hand of reason."

Rebecca smiled faintly and lowered her head. "I have no defence or evidence against that, Mr. Holmes."

I reclined slightly in my armchair, amusedly viewing the pair as they sparred.

I remembered Rebecca's words to me earlier that week. Was it possible? I thought, looking at Holmes as he put away his violin.

Well, I had no conclusive evidence that it was impossible, and according to Holmes himself, one should not overlook that which is only improbable, no matter how highly improbable it may seem.


	11. Chapter 11

While the incidents of the chemical experiment and our duet did not exactly break the ice, I think they served to thaw it by at least a few degrees, for in the following weeks Sherlock Holmes actually began to acknowledge my presence and occasionally converse with me upon various subjects..

Very often during these conversations I felt he was testing me, observing with the intense interest of a scientist. It was as though he had never thought someone could think the thoughts I did, and it pleased him. Consequently, it pleased me.

During one such conversation he was explaining (as he often liked to do) the intricate workings of a bee hive.

"The orderliness of nature is the surest proof we have for a Supreme Being; for a Rational Designer who created each object of nature with reason and for a purpose."

"I wish He would have bestowed that same rational care and design to the human race." I said with a smile and half jokingly. But as always, Holmes saw through to my deeper meaning.

"Do you not believe in Providence?" He asked, quietly and not accusingly.

"To be sure, I believe in the existence of a Supreme Being, in God. As you say, all of nature points to a Creator. But Providence? That indicates a benevolent Being, who is always watching over us, providing for every need, guiding our decisions. And experience has taught me there is all too much evidence against that possibility." My cheeks were flushed and red. I scarcely knew what I was saying or if I believed it. I only knew that I wanted to tell him this, and to hear what he might say.

"How so?"

"Surely you have seen it yourself, Mr. Holmes, in your work. You deal with criminals often...With people who perpetrate inhumanity and acts of cruelty... According to God's laws things are quite clear cut. Yet in this earthly world the good and evil seem to blend together like a nightmare. Families who profess they love each other can break up and commit acts of cruelty at any time, people who profess religion can end up being the most corrupt... in short, nothing seems constant and few, if any of us adhere to the ideals of virtue." I stopped, realizing myself and what I was saying.

"All of what you say is undeniably true. But it does not change things... reason must tell you it does not. God in His wisdom made the law clear cut and simple... it is merely that humankind in its foolishness has complicated and muddled it to an often indistinguishable mess.

And if you do know how to distinguish it , Miss Eastman, it is both a crime and shame to let the majority sway your view."

I went home later that evening, rejoicing inexplicably and for apparently no reason at all except for being alive and in this world.

Christmas came. One of my students' parents had been so kind as to invite me for dinner-out of kindness and concern, I suppose, for the strange woman with no relatives or friends to visit. I was grateful, for it forced me to temporarily give up my unfortunate habit of deep thought... or "daydreaming", as some called it , which would inevitably result from my being all alone.

Nevertheless, once or twice during the evening, as I watched the family lovingly celebrate with each other, I thought of him. I hoped John Watson had came to visit, at least for an hour or so,to share a drink and talk. It displeased me to think of him being alone on this joyful holiday.

But it was absurd to think of him that way. After all, he was a man who liked solitude and quiet, who despised idle chit chat. But no one likes to be alone all their life, to always be alone in their thoughts. Even if one can be incapable of feeling, surely no one is incapable of a longing for companionship?

The holiday quickly went and I resumed work. It was a drearily cold Saturday Dec. 31 when I walked in and found him, half sulking in his usual armchair, with the curtains drawn.

His sensitive ears heard my entrance and he stood up quickly,still in his dressing gown.

"Miss Eastman... I had not expected you today."

Slightly embarrassed, I stood before him. "I'm sorry to intrude.. I was not sure if you required me to come today or not. I can leave..."

"No...stay for a moment, please." He drew back the curtains. I looked at around at the room. It had never exactly been a tidy place, but now it was nearing disaster. I stood there a moment, wondering what to do.

He turned to me with a smile. "Well, there is not much work to be done. It is New Year's Eve, is it not? Would you care for some sherry? It really is most excellent." He put on his robe and began to pour me a glass out of the crystal decanter.

"Yes, thank you." Perhaps this was just another facet of his unpredictable behaviour. He gave me the glass, his sharp eyes turned to me and Silence reigned for a few minutes and grew unbearable. I had to say something.

"And how is Dr. Watson, in his new practice?"

"Excellent, naturally. I understand that he is not only succeeding in his work but also in being liked by all. I am sure he will not remain a junior partner for long."

"I am glad, then that he is both happy and successful."

"Yes.. I often envy his contentedness in regularity."

His last sentence made me blush...partly because that it was so uncharacteristic of him and partly because of the faintly possible meaning it could entail.

He abruptly changed the subject, however, to a discussion of the life of Bach, and so the day settled into some sort of normalcy. The grandfather clock indulged in its unfortunate habit of announcing the time.

"Well, I see that I have kept you too late as usual. Thank you for the pleasure of your company and your patience."

I smiled. "It took no patience, Mr. Holmes... Conversation with a friend is always welcome..." I wondered if that was considered too bold. Apparently not.

"Intelligent and kindly conversation, especially." He said more warmly than I could ever recall. "Good evening, Miss Eastman... and Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year, Mr. Holmes," I said shaking his hand. "and God bless you!"

So it was, perhaps possible... more possible and wonderful than I had ever imagined. The future was full of joy, I was sure, as I stared up into the night sky on that New Years Eve of 1901.

At the risk of sounding schoolgirlish, I will admit my hopes were high. It was not that I expected Holmes to transform miraculously overnight-that would be truly childish and absurd.

It was merely that that New Years Eve there was a marked change in his behaviour towards me... as though it had softened somewhat. And if that softening did not signal the beginning of affection, it must at least be the beginning of friendship.

It was in this frame of mind that I cheerfully reentered the rooms of 221b on Thursday.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Good morning, Miss Eastman." He scarcely looked up from whatever book he was reading."I have something very important to discuss with you." He said rather gravely, approaching me. I found it odd he did not look me in the eye, for almost always his bright eyes stared directly at whomever he was addressing.

"Yes?"

"You have perhaps heard of Philip Dallier?"

"Yes... he is a well known concert pianist, isn't he?"

" Quite. From a past case, which you may have come across in my records I am well acquainted with him. In addition to performing regularly he recently established a prestigious music school here in London. He mentioned to me a need for young and skilled musicians, who could give lessons occasionally and serve as accompanists from time to time. I recommended you to him..."

"Recommended me?"

"Yes." He said quietly, still not looking at my face. "He seemed immensely interested. Here is his card. An audition and interview shall be required, of course, but I have no doubt you shall do well."

"Even with my dreadfully unexpressive playing, Mr. Holmes?" I said, beginning to be irked as I comprehended the situation.

He smiled faintly and continued. "It is an ideal job for a person such as you... and it pays twice what your income is as of now. No doubt it will lead to even better opportunities. Of course, you would not be able to keep your position here any longer, to which I must necessarily consent. I would not dare stand in the way of your success."

"No, indeed." I murmured rather sarcastically under my breath.

"Pardon me?"

"I said, 'thank you kindly ', Mr. Holmes, for all your kind assistance and for thinking of me. I suppose then, with your permission I shall leave now."

"Yes. Well, then, your absence will be felt..." He paused, then pointed to the multitude of papers I had filed. "I have never been so organised and orderly; now it shall not last long."

"Good bye, Mr. Holmes. "

"Good bye, Miss Eastman" He shook my hand. "I hope to see you in the concert hall some day."

I tried to be as gracious as possible, but it wasn't working. I simply forced a smile and left.

I consoled myself by saying his intentions were good as always, that he had intended to help me out, to improve my life. He could not possibly know what I felt.

Even so, it did not change the fact that my hopes that had been steadily building up for the last month had been shattered. Surely, I thought, God did not put me here just to be so cruelly disappointed. Was I really to be alone in this world of the past just as I was in my own modern world?

Ah... my cursedly romanticized nature had gotten the better of me again. Holmes was Holmes, and I was a childish fool to think he could ever change, that somehow, inexplicably his cold proud nature would make an exception for me, out of all the women he had met in his career... Yet, there was something in his manner when he had said good bye to me, some underlying current that seemed to indicate he had not really wanted me to go.

But that was ridiculous and highly irrelevant now.

Perhaps I should simply try to make the most of opportunity. I looked at the card in my hand and soon had made arrangements for an appointment to meet with Mr. Dallier in a week.

In the mean time I sheepishly confess I generally did nothing, except go on long walks in the cold,wet weather; ponder the philosophy of life and sulk; mostly the latter. My new housekeeper, Miss Collins was quite concerned when for the second day my food was left untouched.

Truthfully, however, my illness was not only spiritual but physical; it soon became evident that I had caught "a severe chill" and was confined to the house for a few days.

"Shall I call a doctor, Ma'am?"

"No, Miss Collins, please... it's hardly worth spending a doctor's fee on; I'll mend myself in a few days."

She nodded and shut the door as I curled up under the blankets and reclined my head.

Really I had no cause to complain or be sorrowful, I mused as I lay there. Had I not set out with a longing just to see Holmes, just to live in his world? And it had all been fulfilled. It was as I had always thought it would be... as I had always wanted it to be. No matter what happened, I would still have that wonderful knowledge to take comfort in.

My head seemed to swim and things became nightmarishly blurry for what seemed like a very long time. Things seemed to change rapidly in my dreams and I heard voices close to me... familiar voices in tones and words that I knew were from my world.

"I don't want to go back!" I murmured out loud. But I knew I must be going back... Then gradually it stopped and I seemed to rest peacefully, although still in a strange state of half consciousness.

I accept it, I thought. I accept whatever I must open my eyes to in the morning. It was enough that I lived in his world for a short time...and it has given me courage to live as I believe is right in mine.

Still there was a terrible empty feeling in my stomach that seemed like sorrow... unbearably aching sorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

WATSON COME AT ONCE STOP MISS EASTMAN SERIOUSLY ILL STOP IN NEED OF MEDICAL CARE

Thus read the telegram that I quite unexpectedly received one January afternoon after coming from the surgery. Without delay or ponderance of the message I asked Dr. Dassing's leave for the rest of the day, took my coat and hat and rode a series of taxis to Baker Street.

Holmes would not send such a message nor ask my presence if the illness was a mild one, I was sure of that. With anxiousness I fervently hoped that all would be well.

I arrived at the parlour of 168 Church Street shortly, where the housekeeper answered the door. To my surprise, close behind her was Sherlock Holmes. He was pale, even more so than usual ,and his rather thick brows were knit together in such a way that unmistakably indicated worry-an emotion I had known him to exhibit only on the most trying cases. His face seemed to lighten at the sight of me though.

"Good man, Watson!" He said, taking my hand and patting my shoulder. "Severe pneumonia, Dr. Snow says. He is with her right now." He pushed me slightly in the direction of the staircase leading up to her room.

Before I had even reached the room I heard the sound of wheezing… laborious wheezing that took me back years ago to my Mary's pale, wasted figure, as she coughed up blood and I stood there,unable to do anything except do my pitiful best to comfort her.

As I opened the door, I saw Dr. Snow and a nurse.. but first Rebecca laying on the bed.

Her face was a terrible yellowish gray, with the exception of her cheeks, which burned bright red in contrast. Her lips were slightly parted as her breathing rapidly increased and declined.

Dr. Snow turned to me. "There is nothing either of us can do for her as medical men, Dr. Watson."

"No." I whispered as I drew nearer to examine her.

"There is no use the two of us being here.. In view that the lady is more well acquainted with you I think it best to leave everything in your hands. The nurse will stay if you wish."

"Yes… thank you Dr. Snow." I nodded my head as he exited, then turned to the blanketed figure in the bed.

She was undoubtedly in a state of delirium. Between breaths she whispered phrases that I could make out from time to time.'I don't want to go back' was the phrase she seemed to repeat the most often.

After examining her thoroughly, I decided there was indeed, nothing I could do except pray. I remembered Holmes.

"Keep applying the cold compresses. Notify me immediately should there be any change whatsoever." I told the nurse.

"Yes, sir."

Holmes was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"Well?" he said anxiously.

"It is not well for the poor girl, Holmes."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

He lowered his head with what I was surprised to find was genuine regret and perhaps sorrow.

"But I am entirely in the dark about the whole matter. What happened?" I queried.

The housekeeper spoke up first.

"Miss Rebecca had been brooding over something or another for a couple of days, sir. I told her to eat something and keep her strength up… but she wouldn't. You know how she is when she's in a thoughtful mood I'm sure. Always likes to take long walks. Well, several days ago she disappeared for hours late one evening when it was bitter cold—and it began to pour rain at that, and there she was, with no fare for a taxi. She walked in all drenched. 'You'll catch your death, Miss!" I said. And she just grinned and said she liked long walks in the rain. I made her change and take a hot bath immediately… but I suppose it was too late…"

I shook my head. "And I suppose you notified Mr. Holmes, here?" Holmes lowered his head and said nothing.

"Why, no indeed, sir. He came on his own."

I looked at him questioningly, though perhaps it was really none of my business. He began to explain.

"Over a week ago, I recommended Miss Eastman for a position as music teacher, at Philip Dallier's school .."

"A new job! That you recommended her for? What about her position with you?"

"Well, undoubtedly, she would have to give up her position with me. This job paid twice as much and afforded much more opportunity for her talents."

"And so you felt it was perfectly acceptable to dismiss her at a moment's notice?" My voice loudened and I grew more angry as I grasped the situation and Holmes' insensitivity to it all.

"I did not dismiss her, Watson. I told her of the job and said she would be wise to take it. What irrational person would stay on as a secretary, eking out a living when she could gain both steady income and even prestige elsewhere!" He raised his voice to an uncomfortably high pitch and seemed to address the question to no-one in particular, as though he were the one that required convincing.

"If you, the great detective of our time cannot make any deductions from this, far be it from me to tell you." I said mockingly.

There came silence and I looked at his face. He was genuinely distressed and he bore a look of sorrow that I had never seen on his features. I remembered the fact that he had called for me—called urgently. I softened somewhat. "There's no use in a quarrel, then." I put my hand on his bony shoulder as he often did mine. "Continue with what you were saying." I said awkwardly, for I was not used to acting so with Holmes.

"By chance this morning I ran into Dallier at the station. We talked and I inquired about Miss Eastman. 'She did not keep her appointment…' He said rather sternly. 'Perhaps, Mr. Holmes, she is not as enthusiastic about the position as you thought?' We parted and I considered the situation. Something must be wrong. Miss Eastman is far too practical, I knew , to let an opportunity for security and stability to slip through her fingers, even in the face of whatever emotional distress she might be going through. So I paid a visit and Miss Collins told me everything. Dr. Snow was already here but I would dare not trust any lesser medical ability… and I wired you immediately."

I nodded and turned to go back upstairs.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps it is redundant to even tell you this… but I ask you to pray for her."

"Of course." I said as I plodded up the staircase. "for both of you." I murmured.

I stayed in Rebecca's room until late in the evening, when I came downstairs to get a drink of water. To my vast surprise I saw Holmes in the parlour.

"Holmes! Did you never leave?"

He stood up wearily.

"Once to get a breath of fresh air…I am concerned, Watson. I had a duty to the girl as an employer…"- I wondered how many employers would pace the floor for hours waiting for news of their employee's health - "I do not pretend to understand the sensitive workings of the female mind but if I unwittingly led her to this somehow I am sincerely sorry."

His face and my experience indicated that he was saying less than he intended to say.

"It is no crime, Holmes, to feel concern for a human being…for a woman." I said gingerly

"I know it….Damn it all, Watson!" His fiercely bright eyes lit up, and in vain he seemed to struggle all the more to preserve his cool exterior.

"Go home and get some rest. I'll let you know if there's any change ."

He nodded and, taking his hat, simply walked out the door.

I reentered her room. The nurse had nodded off to sleep at last and I sat down by Rebecca's bedside, listening to her laborious breathing for a few minutes. Then I took her hand and knelt by her bedside, whispering in prayer.

When I awoke early that morning, even before dawn had broke I immediately looked at Rebecca. Her breathing was less laboured, and she seemed to rest more peacefully. I quickly felt her forehead, then took her temperature. The fever had lessened considerably and she was only a few degrees from normal.

Then, an hour later, when I checked on her again, her eyes were open. I smiled with delight and took her hand.

"Rebecca?"

"Watson? It's you,really?I am still here then?" I will never forget the expression that came over her face, for it was the same one she wore when I had first met her in this same room.

"It's me, truly, and you are indeed, still here, in your own room."

Her response caught me off guard. Weak as she was, she threw her arms around my neck and pressed her head to my shoulder, all but weeping for joy. I patted her on the shoulder with happiness and puzzlement. The poor girl… I looked at the nurse, smiling and giving me a knowing wink as Rebecca embraced me.

I cleared my throat and removed her arms from my neck.

"Enough of that now. Rest. I have yet to see a woman who requires so much medical attention as you."

Her tired eyes smiled. "But how did you know I was ill?"

"Holmes wired me. He paid a visit to you yesterday when you failed to show up for your appointment with Mr. Dallier ."

"Oh, yes… the teaching job."

I shook my head. "It was a thoughtless thing that Holmes did."

"Surely you know he did not intend it to be thoughtless. He-." She said almost reproachfully.

"Yes, I know. He is simply that way. And, to his credit, he seems quite concerned about you. He stayed here waiting for news of you all of yesterday and, if I am not mistaken, may come today." I knew this would do more for her than any medicine I could prescribe. "But there is plenty of time to see his gloomy face. Rest for now."

"Yes doctor." She said, happily, grasping my hand as she reclined on her pillow. "Thank you!"

Soon afterwards I walked quickly to Baker Street.

"How is she?" asked Holmes concernedly.

"She is much better and will undoubtedly recover fully in a week or so."

"Thank the Lord!" He exclaimed.

I looked at him standing there, thus, by the window amongst his vast shelves of books and papers and it suddenly occurred to me Holmes might, just might, be capable of that unfortunate emotion humans know as loneliness. I considered what to say to him before I left.

Many times I had spoken to him of the benefits of marriage and of the joy two people can bring to each other. They fell on unwilling, unreceptive ears that shunned the very idea. But then, none of us really like to listen continually to others' advice and cajoling, no matter how well-intentioned it may seem. Perhaps this was something best left to Providence.

"I need to return to South Kensington now, Holmes. I'll return on Sunday to check on her."

"Thank you, Watson" he said simply. I hurried out the door. As I walked down the street I looked up at Holmes' window, remembering with what eagerness Rebecca had glanced up at it during our walks. I shook my head.

"You're a fool if you don't see it , Sherlock Holmes!" I muttered.


	13. Chapter 13

Forever will I cherish that moment when I awoke expecting the worst, and instead saw John Watson's stolid yet gentle face by my bedside. So this then, was my world now and would be for my entire lifetime, I was sure of it.

"Holmes wired me that you were ill... Holmes has been waiting downstairs all day."

Foolish though it was, those phrases continued to run through my head continually. But I dared not let it raise my hopes.

He was merely concerned as any decent man would be for an acquaintance and an employee, and therefore duly notified Dr. Watson. As for waiting downstairs for me all day, perhaps he felt a pang of conscience for practically forcing me to take a job I had indicated no interest in...

"Miss?" said Miss Collins, standing in my doorway.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Holmes to see you, ma'am. I told him you might not be well enough to receive visitors."

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. The clock read half past eight. Quickly I took my brush off the nightstand and flailed away energetically at my mass of tangled hair, while Miss Collins looked on in awe. I took a quick glance in the mirror and decided that was the best I could do.

"Send him in, please, Miss Collins."

Soon I heard footsteps. He strode into my room with the decisive air of a general visiting his wounded troops.

"Miss Eastman."

"Mr. Holmes. It was very good of you to come. Please sit down."

He did so and for a few moments said nothing, his eyes scanning me and the room.

"I was relieved to hear of your recovery." He said at last.

" In part I owe my recovery to you. I would like to thank you for promptly calling Dr. Watson."

"It was the least I could do. He would not have forgiven me had I not notified him."

"May I ask how you knew I was ill?"

"I met Philip Dallier at the station by chance. He was somewhat disappointed that you failed to keep your appointment. I sensed something was wrong and so decided to pay a visit."

"Ah, yes. The job. I fear that it is lost now."

"Do not trouble yourself over it." He said abruptly.

Another period of silence. Eventually he broke it.

"If I in any way caused or contributed to your illness... I apologise."

" I appreciate your sincerity, Mr. Holmes, but how could you have possibly caused me to contract pneumonia?" I said with a smile.

"Watson has often pointed out that I am a creature of insensitivity. Occasionally, I look back on my actions and find that he has a valid point. No matter how sharpened my wits and powers of deduction may be, my ability to sense emotion in others and respond to those emotions accordingly are pitifully limited."

"I am not in the habit of of holding grudges, Mr. Holmes, especially when there are no grounds on which to hold a grudge."

He smiled faintly. "I must go now. When you are fully recovered your position at Baker Street is still yours to resume... if you wish."

"I do wish. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

"Good bye Miss Eastman."

The next day I was able to rise and walk around, much to Miss Collins' protest and the condition that I never take long walks in the cold again. Holmes called two days later. I was not completely surprised; I had learned that his actions were consistently unpredictable.

This time I received him in the parlour and we took tea. I observed his face with interest. There was no trace of his usual good humour, of that impish, knowing half smile that I hated, loved, and laughed at all at the same time. Instead he was quite grave and serious, far away, when I tried to initiate a conversation.

"I think you know me well enough to realize I did not come here to drink tea and chat, Miss Eastman."

"Yes... I am sure you didn't. Something concerning my job, I assume?"

"Indirectly, yes. I have come, in short, to ask you to be my wife." He pronounced the words with grave, deliberate precision.

In the same instant I felt both joy and terror. The joy need not be explained. The terror came from the fact that this was not characteristic of him- that in order for him to ask this of me he had either undergone a horrifyingly miraculous transformation or was never really the man I had thought him to be. Neither concept appealed to me. But he continued:

"Before you say anything however, I must request that you hear everything I have to say."

I nodded in bewilderment.

"No doubt you are shocked by this, knowing how openly I have ridiculed and cited the follies of love. And so I must warn you, or rather, assure you, that my proposal is not motivated by any romantic sentiment. It is an offer to enter into a well reasoned, beneficial arrangement."

"Beneficial?" I interrupted. "I cannot see how it would be beneficial to you. I am penniless, with no relatives, connections or acquaintances of any importance in London besides you. If your motives are not of a romantic nature, I can not possibly see what you could gain."

"On the contrary, I would gain a companion."

I stared at him in silence.

"Some weeks ago, when Watson told me he was vacating our lodgings at Baker Street, I understood his reasons, different though they were. Things change around us continually and it is a fact of life that none of us like to brave that change alone. We long for a source of constancy... in a person particularly, that can support us, give us encouragement in work and life in general.

In my youth I would have scoffed at the idea, considering myself one of the fortunate exemptions to that truism. But I see I am not, no more than I can be exempt from the human desire for food and water. Still, the foolishness and inconstancy of most women of my acquaintance would have prevented from me remedying this-and I am sure they would be have been equally repelled at my lack of feeling. And that is where you played an important role in my decision.

It is rare and remarkable to discover a likeness of minds between people... an understanding of the same values and principles. Of course I realize we do not share all the same thoughts and viewpoints. But, inherently, I know you understand them... and what's more, that you respect them,as I do yours.

Perhaps Watson has told you that I am a hermit-like creature that forms associations only with select acquaintances and clients when necessary. That is quite true. However, I am not adverse to friendship, when it is based on mutual respect and understanding. I offer this, if nothing else as s rationale behind my proposal."

I could identify only one out of many emotions that came over me at that moment-relief. This was more believable, more in character, however disappointing it might be to the silly fantasies I had spun.

"And yet..." I said with great hesitancy-but it must be said. " And yet, you know nothing about me. Nothing of my family background, or my past... or where I come from." He stared at me with those unbearably sharp eyes.

" I do not see how that information would have any practical bearing on the situation for either of us. Besides, it is a situation that would soon be remedied in marriage."

I opened my mouth to say something farther but abruptly closed it. As they say, it is best not to press your luck, nor to tempt Fate. He continued:

"I have stated what I would gain from this arrangement. However, I am afraid it might not prove as beneficial to you. Having some knowledge of my irregular habits and eccentricities, you must realize what I mean. Among many other things, I seldom take breakfast, occasionally fast, and fall into trance-like uncommunicative moods for hours, even days. All this is part of my nature-and I could not change it for anyone. Modify, perhaps, but never completely change.

Most significantly, however, our marriage would be one without love. you would have my respect, certainly, and the duties of affection a man is bound to give his wife... but no love. Any sentimental attachment, any over-glorification of emotion is abhorrent to me, and so to profess love would be a pretence and a sham to both of us. Of course, I do not know your views upon the subject..."

"I assure you, I would not expect any love from such an... arrangement, nor would I desire there be any." I half-wished that he could see I was lying.

"I thought as much; indeed I counted upon your apparent logic and practicality. And, as to any profits on your part by my proposal, I can only offer an interesting lifestyle, a modest income, and whatever pleasure you might take in my companionship."

What to say in a such a situation? Perhaps I should say nothing-except to indicate my acceptance.

"Mr Holmes-"

"Please, I ask you not to decide yet. Consider it as you would a business proposition, only one of vast importance, the consequences of which will last a lifetime. I must travel to Sussex tomorrow on business and will be gone a week. Here is the address. Wire me when you have decided." He handed a small card to me as he spoke, his face unchanging.

"Good bye, Miss Eastman."

"Good bye Mr. Holmes." I stood by the door and watched him until he was out of sight.

I allowed two days to pass exactly, as I considered that the amount of time that a cool woman of logic would take to make her decision. Then I went to the telegraph office and sent the following message:

MR HOLMES I ACCEPT. R.E.

I received a message at dinner the following day.

AM PLEASED STOP WILL RETURN ON THURSDAY TO DISCUSS FURTHER S.H.


	14. Chapter 14

"My dear fellow!... I- My dear fellow!" I repeated the words stupidly as the glass of port in my hand trembled, for I could not think of anything sufficient enough to express my surprise at the news I had just heard from Holmes' own lips. He sat there in the armchair opposite me, unsmiling, with a look of anxiety on his face.

"You are not displeased, Watson? Tell me frankly if you are. I do not want this to become a source of division between us."

"My old friend... How could it possibly be? I am happy for you both, truly."

His expression told me he was not entirely convinced.

"Come now, Holmes... let us have out with it. So you think that because I proposed to Rebecca and was refused, I would bear ill will against my friend because he was accepted? I scarcely knew what I was doing at the time; it is all forgotten. And it is a poor man, indeed who fosters jealousy in his heart."

"And a good man, indeed, who will take no part of it." He said with a smile, leaning over to refill my glass.

"I cannot tell you how long I have waited and hoped for the time when a good, fine woman would capture your attentions..."

"It is not as you think." He interrupted sharply.

"How so?"

"I mean, it is not the romantic scene of domestic tranquility that you believe it is. " He took a long sip. " I laid the matter before her as a business proposition... as a marriage of companionship... of like minds."

I slowly digested the meaning of his words.

"And... she accepted, on those terms?"

"Yes. She was admirably calm and reasonable about the matter."

I exhaled a deep sigh of pain and perhaps a little bit of disgust. Admirably calm and reasonable indeed. I knew Rebecca. Beneath that calm exterior was a raging storm of emotion... she would sooner think of death than refusing him.

I looked as he sat, more subdued than I had ever seen him before, his eyes lowered and fixated at a point on the carpet. Though I might lodge with him and chronicle his actions for a hundred years the man would always remain an enigma to me.

I longed to tell him, to say something for both their sakes. But what? 'Rebecca is in love with you, Holmes?' ... So as usual I took the easiest alternative- to say nothing about it.

"Watson... may I ask of you a great favour?"

"Of course."

"Will you be my best man?"

"I am honoured... but surely that is a role that properly would go to Mycroft."

He waved his hand. "Mycroft will understand. Besides, he will be consoled by the task of giving the bride away. Will you, Watson?"

I smiled. His sincerity was so great that it was impossible to stay disappointed with him for long. "Of course... and when is the happy occasion?"

"Three weeks from today, at St. Luke's down the street. She graciously acquiesced to a small wedding."

And small it was indeed. There was Mycroft, myself, and Billy. In the pews sat Mrs. Hudson, Miss Collins, Mycroft's wife Mariette and sister in law Margueruite.

Holmes himself looked well, though remarkably uncomfortable in a newly pressed suit as I stood by him at the altar . A white carnation peeked out from his breast pocket, contrasting with his severe and disciplined bearing.

The organ sounded its first chord-not the blaring chord of the conventional march... but a tasteful, softly lilting melody that I knew Rebecca must have chosen. The massive doors of the church opened and there appeared Mycroft in all his bulk, and at his arm a very lovely bride in a simple gown of lace and a string of pearls.

Eventually the vows were said. Holmes said his deliberately, with precision and a kind of admirably dutiful tone, though never once he met Rebecca's eyes. Gently his long,nervous fingers slipped the ring on Rebecca's hand.

Rebecca recited hers with equal gravity and clearness, though once I saw her take a long glance at his face, her voice trembling.

Then came a small procession and reception at 221b. No one thought to shower the couple with rice, for it had began to rain heavily in the freezing weather outside.

"Mon Dieu!" I overheard Mariette whisper when she saw the downpour, crossing herself devoutly and whispering to Mycroft something about bad luck. He laughed audibly as she chided.

For the next hour or so we alternately stood or sat uncomfortably, sipping champagne and eating wedding cake at 221b while Mrs. Hudson and Billy looked on. It was the ladies alone who managed to keep the atmosphere somewhat cheerful and in keeping with a celebration of matrimony.

"My dear, how on earth did you manage to make this man think of anything else besides his work, beekeeping and music?" said Mariette, her plain face made agreeable by her cheerful, rather teasing smile.

"I didn't." Said Rebecca unsmilingly. Mariette and her sister laughed. Rebecca's cheeks were flushed with pink while Holmes' face deepened into a look of annoyance that he reserved for the most exasperating clients.

Time passed and soon I noticed Mycroft approaching me with a glass of port in hand. "What do you make of it, doctor?" he whispered to me, indicating the couple that now stood safely out of earshot.

I shrugged. "I think they will suit each other well and I wish them the best." I said, vaguely, not sure of the question.

"Yes, yes... but what of Sherlock? What of the sudden marriage to the girl?"

"He did not tell you of his reasons?" I said innocently.

"Seldom do we discuss such things... Come now, Watson, we both know him well. What caused him to do it?"

I hesitated... he had not instructed me to keep it in confidence... and Mycroft was not a man disposed to chatter...

"He told me it was was a matter of companionship... of a recent distaste of living and being alone all his life. Rebecca suited him and it seemed they had a likeness of minds..."

Mycroft smiled derisively and suppressed a chuckle.

"Ah, you've confirmed my suspicion doctor, in less than a few sentences! Tired of living alone indeed...Sherlock thrives on solitude. He would brave the very demons of hell alone, and enjoy doing it."

"How do you mean?"

"Suppression of emotion and the exaltation of reason as the ultimate ideal... that is the credo Sherlock and I were brought up with, that is firmly ingrained in both of us. Yet, it was always I that kept it more faithfully. I am indolent; passionless as Sherlock has perhaps noted to you. You will never find me burning with angry indignation at an injustice, nor working feverishly for the pure joy of it. Those are decidedly not the signs of a man incapable of feeling.

But I don't condemn this in him, you understand. It is undoubtedly what distinguishes him from me and all other men of similar intelligence-the fact that he is full of passion, which through much discipline he has tempered for his purpose, to harness and channel for his own means. It is quality of seen in him even when I was a youth, seven years his senior. And it is that knowledge which leads me to conclude that he is deeply in love with yonder lady."

"In love?" I whispered at a dangerously high volume. "Come now... For his own sake I have wished that it were so on more than one occasion. All of what you say about his nature is quite true, but look at him! Does he betray any sign of a man in love?"

"As we both know, he is quite the actor." Mycroft shrugged. "I dare not read him by his face or words. And there are other possible factors involved. Consider my new sister, there. What motive did she have for accepting my dear little brother ? Money? With her talent she could do better in that arena, either through matrimony to a well-off man or through a career of her own. Companionship? If Sherlock told her openly, as he must have, that he has no romantic attraction to her, that would be enough to frighten nearly any female off, if she was not already frightened off by his eccentricities.

So what made her say "I do" in spite of all this? It must be a highly irrational factor indeed- love. Do you not think Sherlock must have reasoned it out similarly? He must know...or at least suspect that the girl loves him. And why else would he seemingly ignore the fact and go through with this marriage in such an unemotional state? The only answer is that he must, to some degree, return her affection.

So either way, my good doctor, I am afraid Sherlock is destined to love his bride."

"Afraid? Afraid that he will experience the happiness you have found with Mrs. Holmes?"

"My marriage to Mrs. Holmes is one of political and diplomatic convenience. That is not to say it is without its affection...we suit each other well enough. But love... that is an entirely different matter."

I opened my mouth to protest but I saw Holmes glaring with his face of a hawk in our direction.

Mycroft loudly announced it was time to go. I followed suit.

"Good night to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes." I said, shaking Holmes hand and kissing Rebecca's cheek. "Know that I wish you all the happiness this world can afford. I-" I didn't know what else to say. Holmes smiled kindly.

"I know it, old man... we both do. Good night." He grasped my hand firmly.


	15. Chapter 15

I was scarcely conscious of anything that cold, grey January day, except the event that lay ahead. The day passed by in an indistinguishable blur of events until the clock struck three. It was time.

Miss Collins surveyed me with a skeptical eye as she finished helping me dress. "Are you really going to do it, Miss Rebecca?"

I looked at her incredulously.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, he's a good man, I know, ma'am. But as a husband? A keen mind is a fine thing, but believe me, a woman needs warmth and affection as well."

"And what makes you think I don't know that?" I snapped loudly in foolish anger. She had bluntly voiced the fear that had been tormenting me all day. I instantly regretted my insensitive outburst.

"I'm sorry, Miss Collins. ... And you've always been so good to me... forgive me, please."

Her face softened.

"It's all right, miss. It's common to have jitters on your day... I was only concerned for your sake."

"So am I." I said and laid my head on her shoulder. I knew I was acting foolish but had no will to conceal it.

"It will come 'round" She said, patting me affectionately. "You're both young and reasonable... you'll make a go of it together, I dare say, no matter what happens."

Before I knew it I was leaning on Mycroft's-my brother Mycroft's- arm, desperate trying to steady my wobbliness as I walked towards the altar and Holmes.

He pronounced his vows with his usual cool and collected demeanour. Yet there was something reassuring in the way he held my hand that gave me courage to recite mine.

Ah, then the kiss. There was an awkward moment and I dared not move. Slowly he leaned forward and lightly, very lightly, touched his lips to mine.

Then a few minutes passed and it was over, and we rode in a hansom decorated with white ribbons to 221b, the white ribbons becoming soaked with the cold downpour of rain that had began during the ceremony.

The reception was not an especially enjoyable one. Mariette Holmes and Marguerite, good women that they were tried to be merry and make conversation... but I was in no mood for it and could not pretend to be. Watson and Mycroft stood in the corner, somberly discussing something in quiet tones while Holmes alternately paced around the room and observed everyone as though he was investigating the scene of a murder.

It grew late and a terrible aching feeling came upon me. I wanted them all to leave the room-but then again, I wanted them to stay.

Inevitably, Mycroft announced the time. They bid their farewells and wished us happiness... I smiled and tried to at least appear gracious and conscious of the whole scenario.

And then we were alone.

There was dreadful silence, as in the first days of our acquaintance. I sat down by the hearth quietly, listening to the fire's crackling and the steadiness of the falling rain outside.

"More champagne?" He said.

I accepted it but nearly dropped the glass, my hands were trembling so.

"Terrible weather." I noted stupidly, looking out the window. "It may turn to ice."

"Quite." He responded to my surprise."I am sure it had been a fatiguing day for both of us. Perhaps we should retire."

"Yes."

In a few minutes he was in his dressing gown and I in my nightgown.

Despite all my silly fears and uncertainty, I will not deny that I stared at him openly. . His remarkably intelligent eyes, though they stared at me with the air of a scientist in deep research, were admirable to look upon. As usual he stood before me confidently, with the air of a soldier that knows his mission and how to accomplish it. On the whole, he was like some noble ideal, that people have long forgotten about by the time they decide to marry.

"Rebecca." he said, approaching and taking my hand respectfully. "What I do tonight is a duty... in fulfilment of the vows that I spoke earlier. If you find it abhorrent or repulsive... tell me so now."

"I do not find it abhorrent... nor repulsive." I said simply. I was sure he felt me tremble as he stiffly but gently put his arms around me.

I awoke the next morning to find him standing by the window, the morning sunlight streaming in. His face was somber and introspective, unreflective of the joy and happiness in mine which in spite of the circumstances I could not bring myself to conceal.

"I have done you an injustice." He said deliberately.

"An injustice? How?"

"By marrying you."

"Really, that is prep-" He raised his hand in protest before I said anything further, the wedding ring on his finger glistening in the sunlight. I listened.

"Let me speak plainly, Rebecca, though it may be painful to both of us. Your tenderness... the way that you looked at me last evening and the way you are looking at me now... is not as mine... it is not as the mere duty one spouse owes the other."

"And did you just now discover this?" I could not help saying.

"No. But I have only know acknowledged it. I would have been a blind fool, indeed, not to see it before. No woman would reject a life of domestic warmth with good Watson only to accept one of Spartan gloominess with me were it not for another factor. But even before that I suspected... from Watson's descriptions of you and your own behaviour.

The fact is, I sorely neglected my own principle... to never allow one's emotions and desires to interfere with objective observation. I wanted you as a companion. I desired our marriage to come about... and so refused to see what your own state of emotion may have been on the subject. Your admirably rational and emotionless response to my proposal farther confirmed what I wanted to believe. And so here you are, wrongly so, by my own selfish blindness."

"But you neglect the fact that I am a grown, capable woman, Sherlock. I knew what I was doing."

"On the contrary, I am well aware of that... that is what pains me the most. I will inevitably hurt you, for I cannot return the affection you so willingly give me. As I have said, it is not in my nature to over-glorify emotion."

"I have not asked you to."

He continued, looking at me oddly in an expression I could not identify. "I can promise, however, my respect, regard, and what I believe is great admiration of your character."

That was more-far more- than what I had expected to hear.

"No reasonable woman would ask for more, would she? The respect and admiration of a fine man is more than many in this life will ever have."

He said nothing but took my hand and gently kissed it.

"Now then, Mrs. Hudson appears to have prepared an exceptionally large breakfast for us, for I have heard pots and pans clattering for at least an hour. Undoubtedly she expects my eating habits to miraculously transform now that I have the softening influence of the fair sex in my house. Well, I shall take tea, at any rate. Shall we go?"

I could not help but laugh.


	16. Chapter 16

OUR BELOVED QUEEN HAS PASSED TO HER REST

"I am sorry." I said to no-one in particular as I read that simple headline on the newspaper that was thrown across my husband's desk one morning.

"Yes." He said, sitting in his armchair, quietly smoking. His eyes were fixed on the V.R. initials on the west side of the room. "We shall travel to Windsor to attend the funeral procession next week." He raised his eyes to me, seeming to seek my approval.

"Of course."

We stood among throngs and throngs of people that day, standing to catch a glimpse of the procession.

Holmes stood by me, a band of black ribbon tied around his thin arm.

Soon in the distance we heard the strains of the band, and the clattering of the horses' hooves on the pavement. The carriage containing the coffin passed us. Holmes removed his hat and bowed his head, as many did.

"A remarkably grand procession." He noted to me when it was over and the massive crowd slowly began to break up.

"And rightly so, for such a great lady."

He shook his head. "It is even more than the loss of a great lady that we are mourning…perhaps even more than the English pride and patriotism she inspired."

"It is much more." I said as I took his arm and we made our way through the streets. "It was the era… the ideals she stood for. Morality was made appealing to the human race, and closely associated with beauty.

A man once said that the greatest mark of romanticism… and of this century… is 'a longing for the infinite'. Eventually we will lose that. We will lose all of this; the attitudes; the beliefs these people take for granted. I-"

I stopped—for he had stopped abruptly and was staring at me with that odd look—the one I could never quite interpret. Matrimony did not change the fact that his eyes was unbearably piercing… and admirable to behold.

"You speak as though you know what is to come."

"I do—in a way. It is something I must explain to you someday—but not now, please."

"I have not asked you to." He said with his half-smile. We continued walking , in silence, for a few minutes.

"You are right, you know." He resumed unexpectedly. "about all this. All that we take for granted will inevitably pass away. Already it is changing, subtle though it may be.

To be sure, it was not a perfect era. It had its share of corruption and oppression as any human culture must. But it was noble, because the people who founded it, who lived and tried and succeeded believed in noble things. Their sense of clarity… purpose and discipline permeated the entire land. "

I said nothing but clung a little tighter to his arm. I had the odd feeling that it pleased him.

"In spite of all this, Rebecca… it is no good forever looking to the past."

I smiled, with a touch of amusement at his ironic statement. " No. It is no use, now."

"If an individual refuses to forsake his principles, all this is really irrelevant. The world can change or cease to exist as it pleases… but that certainty and constancy would endure." We came to the line at the station. He stared down at his shoes. "Rebecca, I-"

The train let out its piercing scream of a whistle, cutting him off sharply. Quietly we gave the man our tickets and boarded.

We at last sat down in the train car for Charing Cross.

"I intended to say, I am glad—more than glad-that you are here with me, as my wife. In my experience and observation a truly happy marriage is a rare thing… and yet I believe I am a man fortunate enough to find himself in such a marriage."

He looked at me earnestly, his stare, as always, deeper than his words. I smiled and pressed his hand, then looked out the window quickly; for I did not want him to see the foolish tears that were welling up in my eyes which he would undoubtedly scoff at.

He was right, as nearly always. None of it mattered… none of what I had been thinking in my own world mattered. There was no looking to the past now… only the future. And how wonderful and bright it seemed that day as our train rolled out of the station.


End file.
